Snydersville (Stroudsburg), PA, December 19, 2010
By: Chris Loynd
It was just a really nice day for a Polar Bear motorcycle ride. A threatening snow storm stayed out to sea. Attendant clouds kept the temperatures above freezing, mostly above freezing.
Grumpy is back. I knew it was him as I approached the Dunkin' Donuts jump off point in Stratford Sunday morning because he was at the head of a line of bikes ready to pull onto Lordship Boulevard . . . without me! He has left without me before, just left me to ride on my own for the lack of a mere minute or two waiting for a late comrade.
I was not late this time. My GPS, hyper-accurate time was 8:30 a.m. Well, okay, that's a lie. It read 8:31 as I pulled up to the line of bikes poised to leave . . . without me, as I said.
My usual M.O. is to arrive just as our guys are suiting up to leave. Okay, so I cut it a bit tighter than usual last Sunday morning because my wife Cynthia's computer was still predicting snow. Worried, I waited for the Cablevision forecast as I suited up. The TV weatherman said no snow. And I was off.
After eight years, the rest of the guys usually cut me a bit of slack.
It's okay for Grumpy to be punctual. He's ex-military. And he's, well, particular, very, hence the nickname.
As for Pogy and Scott waiting not-so-patiently at the Darien rest stop, I once again attest that our line of bikes departed the Dunkin' at precisely 8:31. So I don't want to hear any more guff about us being late to you guys.
In my last blog post I explored in depth the features and foibles of GPS navigation for motorcycles. I am no tech wiz, but I am well read. As I understand it, timing is everything for synchronizing the two or three satellites in geosynchronous orbit above the earth in order to triangulate my motorcycle's exact position in the world. So the time displayed on my GPS is the most accurate time you can get.
It read 8:31 as I approached our guys ready to go. Grumpy and I exchanged very little. I said, “Welcome back!” He nodded, I think disapprovingly, and dropped his clutch. Captain waved me into place with a nod of his head. There's just no way we departed Dunkin' any later than 8:31:30, no matter what Pogy says about his certified travel time from Stratford to Darien.
Except for a bout of stop-and-go construction traffic on Route 80 headed west, we enjoyed an uneventful ride to the Pocono Mountains. My odometer read just exactly 150 miles, one-way. So I am hoping my Flight Leaders give me the extra point. Captain clocked something like 308 round trip, so maybe my odometer is running a bit shy.
We decided that is maybe too long a run for some of us older guys. Next long ride, we maybe need to build in a bathroom break. One of our guys joked that he couldn't wait and just went in his riding suit. That also helped solve the problem of cold toes, at least for a little while, he said.
My GPS would probably give me uber-accurate exact distance traveled. And I am sure it is in there somewhere imprinted on a memory chip. I just don't know how to find it. Guess I had better spend some Christmas holiday downtime trying to better learn how to use the dang thing.
I also upgraded my cell phone last week. That too comes with its learning curve. It has wonderful, whizzbang features. You just have to memorize the 10,000 key combinations, 3,000 screens and 12,000 so called short cuts in order to tap the phone's potential. And don't even get me started on the million-some apps.
Smart phone my a**! If it's so smart, why doesn't it intuitively know what I want? Oh, there's an app for that?
Fortunately, I did pretty quickly pick up how to make and receive phone calls. And unlike Captain, I can text.
Back on topic, we arrived in good order, early though. Fortunately the split pea soup showed up soon after we did. Walter Kern even made a video of ever-helpful Grumpy carrying the soup for Mrs. Schoch.
Mrs. Schoch was there managing the food, greeting the Polar Bears and spreading good will. Thank you again for hosting us!
Unfortunately, Schoch's was using their spacious upstairs for other things. So we did not get any opportunity to sit down and kibbutz with one another. We stood around downstairs, had a bit of food, drank a half-cup of coffee. Somehow, I managed to still be last out to our bikes for departure. (It wasn't my fault I got caught in the longer bathroom line.)
Fortunately Grumpy was along with his camera. Mine had a dead battery. So we still managed the group picture. I am sure, in a pinch, I could have taken the photo with my fancy new cell phone. It has an 8 megapixel camera built in. I do know how to take a picture with my phone. I just don't know where it goes after I take it, or how to get a picture from my phone to my computer.
Our ride home was smooth and uneventful. Grumpy proudly offered to buy the coffees at Chez GSP. He had a $20 Dunkin' Donuts gift card. But the Dunkin' on the Garden State Parkway is not a “participating vendor.” Grumpy was a good sport and bought all the same.
I am sure there is more that happened on our ride. I fell asleep on the couch when I got home, had two, no three now, consecutive Christmas parties since Sunday. Plus Pogy and I had a very interesting discussion about our jobs and companies that affected me profoundly. And that's all I can seem to remember from last Sunday. Maybe some of my fellow bears can chime in with a few remembrances of their own.
Our next ride is a whole two weeks away. Because Christmas and New Year's both fall on weekends, the Grand Tour has decided to forgo Sunday rides on those holidays.
So in the meanwhile a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Polar Bear Montgomeryville, Pa.; December 5, 2010
Montgomeryville, PA; December 5, 2010
Polar Bear weather: 26 degrees to start, 29 to finish, don't think it ever broke 40.
By: Chris Loynd
Longtime Polar Bear Blog readers will know that over the years I have made good fun of GPS enabled ride leaders. Now I am one.
Pulling into the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford just as my fellow riders were dressing and getting organized, Captain and I discussed the ride and route. He asked “Who's leading?” like he didn't want to be the one. So I figured, “What the heck?” and rode out to the front of the group.
I wasn't really ready to lead.
Yes, I had looked at the MapQuest map when I formulated a departure time. I have a vague concept of where Pennsylvania lies. Fortunately, I had at least entered the destination address into my GPS as a precaution. (Thank you Bob V.)
I embraced one of these satellite receiver contraptions for my trip west. In the 7,500 miles and four weeks of our trip together, GPS and me, we fell in love. I am a convert. GPS is wonderful for a motorcycle.
Being lost in Cambridge, Mass. on the bike a few years back haunts me still. I had to stop the bike, fish the paper map out of my saddlebags, figure out where I was, memorize two or three turns to where I wanted to go. It took me six or eight of these confusing, mind-wrenching, memory-taxing stops to finally get back on the interstate, headed for home with a headache.
GPS puts the map in front of you. Nearly as helpful, it tells you how far to the next turn. Still, it has limitations.
Like most things computer, GPS comes with a learning curve. Sunday's ride clearly evidenced I have not climbed far enough up the curve.
GPS also has it's benefits. For one thing, if you are willing to surrender your destiny to a computer algorithm, GPS will take you through all kinds of interesting country. This facility has been the fodder of blogs past. Led by other CT Polar Bear GPS following leaders, we have explored the very depths of New Jersey farm country, toured some of its nastiest cities and seen paved roads suddenly turn to dirt, all at the behest of someone's GPS.
My turn at GPS roulette came Sunday. I led us all the way out Route 202 from Interstate 287. In the past we have taken the faster Interstate 78 west, then dropped down to Montgomeryville.
The 202 is a pretty ride, actually. Once you clear the stoplights, there for a while the scenery looks nice as you transition from Jersey pharmacy land to horse country to suburban ticky-tacky boxes country.
Across the bridge in New Hope, Pa., we rode past beautiful old Pennsylvania stone houses. Downtown Doylestown was actually quite charming. Apparently my GPS felt it was faster to go right through the center of town than to bypass it on the expressway.
Russ accused me of having my GPS set to “shortest route” (or maybe “most scenic”) instead of “fastest route.” I confirmed my affirmation when I got home. In fact it was set to “fastest,” although you could not have proven it by my ride navigation last Sunday. After our summer adventure together, my GPS and me, perhaps it suffers from a lack of scenery on our urban expressway-dominated Polar Bear rides.
We did, in fact, reach Montgomeryville Cycle Center. And some of our riders commented, “Well we have never gone that way before.”
Thanks to my GPS, we came at the dealership destination from a completely different direction. I'm not sure of the compass heading. I'll have to look at a paper map to figure out how we got there.
The change in approach meant I missed the turnoff. On all our previous rides, the dealership came up on the left, which is where I was looking when it quite suddenly appeared on the right. I felt it would have been unsafe to get on the brakes too hard, being at the head of a line of bikes. So I dove for the shoulder. Everyone else made the turn to the dealership.
Russ, my wing man, could have made the turn too. But Russ is one of the best wing men in motorcycling. And just like Maverick in “Top Gun,” Russ knows: you never leave your wing man. So he rode twenty miles further with me (Russ said it was more like 50 or a hundred) until we could find an exit ramp and turnaround. Russ will follow you up a tree if he is your wing man.
When I finally arrived at the Polar Bear destination, Token quipped, “We've already taken the group photo without you.” But he was only kidding.
Motgomeryville Cycle Center offered warming beef chili with all the fixin's, including corn bread. Yummy! They also served hot dogs, coffee and water. Seating was at a premium, but eventually we found a spot for all of us together at the end of a table.
Bob Hartpence, Polar Bear Grand Pooh-bah, stopped by with some interesting comments about his challenges trying to keep in touch with members via e-mail blasts. All I can say, is that this blog is 100% opt-in. If you don't like it, don't read it. Geeze! Even bikers are going politically correct?
By the way, this blog is open to commentary. The BlogSpot version allows you to post a comment right then and there. The version with photos requires you to send me an e-mail.
It was fun to see Token2 regale in this plastic-dominated store filled with metric motorcycles. He truly was happy in his element. He said to me, “Look at this half of the shop: no chrome!” A token no more, these were HIS people!
Unfortunately, he had to nestle amongst Harleys for the ride home.
Before we departed, Token2 had to purchase a new controller for his heated garments. When we got to our stop at top of the GSP (yes, I did finally lead us home), turns out John J. has had trouble with his as well. John J. sent his controller back to Gerbing and the sent it back with a patched wire. John J. is still not happy.
Considering I am a Polar Bear rider that hates the cold, I think I will purchase a second controller as back-up.
My GPS and I agreed upon a homeward route. I wanted to take the more express Interstate 78 back. Simply by hitting the “home” button, my GPS showed me a reasonable route north to I-78 then east to I-287. We had an accord and off I went, bikes trailing behind me.
Unfortunately, most of our bikes were running on fumes, a gas stop sorely needed. I passed up a WAWA, thinking a few of my guys might not appreciate an off-brand fill-up.
(We did not have Grumpy with us. That's significant because he insists not only on brandname gasoline, but also one made from oil pumped under the proper geopolitical circumstances. Hugo Chavez, you listening?)
But the road past the WAWA started looking pretty rural and I was afraid we might not find another gas station. So I circled the procession with a "U" turn, always a move open to derision, and reversed my line of march back to WAWA.
Apparently my GPS took my indecision to indicate a change in plans. And without my knowing it, the GPS took it upon itself to change my route. Captain later said he believes the GPS calculates your route depending upon which way the bike is pointed at the time.
Between the u-turn and then riding around through the filling station, I guess I performed the equivalent of spinning around the blindfolded player in blind man's bluff. My GPS got confused.
The computer still took us home, but sent me back exactly the way I came, stoplights and all.
Sometimes it's hard to tell what or who is in charge, the computer or the user. Speaking of which, I can't wait to see the new Tron movie. Maybe there is a future version where a driver gets sucked into his GPS.
Now that most all our riders are GPS equipped (I was one of the last holdouts) they at least know what I am up to, floundering around at the head of the line as I was. They can follow my every foible, turn-by-turn.
A full line of bikes behind you definitely limits your experimental navigation options. On my own, I would not have sweated the turnaround. I would have simply taken the next State Route indicating “north,” confident in eventually running into I-78.
One advantage of GPS is that you lose your fear of getting lost. My Garmin motorcycle version even has an “off road” function. I can't wait to try that out with Russ at my side. He loves dirt and gravel roads.
Polar Bear weather: 26 degrees to start, 29 to finish, don't think it ever broke 40.
By: Chris Loynd
Longtime Polar Bear Blog readers will know that over the years I have made good fun of GPS enabled ride leaders. Now I am one.
Pulling into the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford just as my fellow riders were dressing and getting organized, Captain and I discussed the ride and route. He asked “Who's leading?” like he didn't want to be the one. So I figured, “What the heck?” and rode out to the front of the group.
I wasn't really ready to lead.
Yes, I had looked at the MapQuest map when I formulated a departure time. I have a vague concept of where Pennsylvania lies. Fortunately, I had at least entered the destination address into my GPS as a precaution. (Thank you Bob V.)
I embraced one of these satellite receiver contraptions for my trip west. In the 7,500 miles and four weeks of our trip together, GPS and me, we fell in love. I am a convert. GPS is wonderful for a motorcycle.
Being lost in Cambridge, Mass. on the bike a few years back haunts me still. I had to stop the bike, fish the paper map out of my saddlebags, figure out where I was, memorize two or three turns to where I wanted to go. It took me six or eight of these confusing, mind-wrenching, memory-taxing stops to finally get back on the interstate, headed for home with a headache.
GPS puts the map in front of you. Nearly as helpful, it tells you how far to the next turn. Still, it has limitations.
Like most things computer, GPS comes with a learning curve. Sunday's ride clearly evidenced I have not climbed far enough up the curve.
GPS also has it's benefits. For one thing, if you are willing to surrender your destiny to a computer algorithm, GPS will take you through all kinds of interesting country. This facility has been the fodder of blogs past. Led by other CT Polar Bear GPS following leaders, we have explored the very depths of New Jersey farm country, toured some of its nastiest cities and seen paved roads suddenly turn to dirt, all at the behest of someone's GPS.
My turn at GPS roulette came Sunday. I led us all the way out Route 202 from Interstate 287. In the past we have taken the faster Interstate 78 west, then dropped down to Montgomeryville.
The 202 is a pretty ride, actually. Once you clear the stoplights, there for a while the scenery looks nice as you transition from Jersey pharmacy land to horse country to suburban ticky-tacky boxes country.
Across the bridge in New Hope, Pa., we rode past beautiful old Pennsylvania stone houses. Downtown Doylestown was actually quite charming. Apparently my GPS felt it was faster to go right through the center of town than to bypass it on the expressway.
Russ accused me of having my GPS set to “shortest route” (or maybe “most scenic”) instead of “fastest route.” I confirmed my affirmation when I got home. In fact it was set to “fastest,” although you could not have proven it by my ride navigation last Sunday. After our summer adventure together, my GPS and me, perhaps it suffers from a lack of scenery on our urban expressway-dominated Polar Bear rides.
We did, in fact, reach Montgomeryville Cycle Center. And some of our riders commented, “Well we have never gone that way before.”
Thanks to my GPS, we came at the dealership destination from a completely different direction. I'm not sure of the compass heading. I'll have to look at a paper map to figure out how we got there.
The change in approach meant I missed the turnoff. On all our previous rides, the dealership came up on the left, which is where I was looking when it quite suddenly appeared on the right. I felt it would have been unsafe to get on the brakes too hard, being at the head of a line of bikes. So I dove for the shoulder. Everyone else made the turn to the dealership.
Russ, my wing man, could have made the turn too. But Russ is one of the best wing men in motorcycling. And just like Maverick in “Top Gun,” Russ knows: you never leave your wing man. So he rode twenty miles further with me (Russ said it was more like 50 or a hundred) until we could find an exit ramp and turnaround. Russ will follow you up a tree if he is your wing man.
When I finally arrived at the Polar Bear destination, Token quipped, “We've already taken the group photo without you.” But he was only kidding.
Motgomeryville Cycle Center offered warming beef chili with all the fixin's, including corn bread. Yummy! They also served hot dogs, coffee and water. Seating was at a premium, but eventually we found a spot for all of us together at the end of a table.
Bob Hartpence, Polar Bear Grand Pooh-bah, stopped by with some interesting comments about his challenges trying to keep in touch with members via e-mail blasts. All I can say, is that this blog is 100% opt-in. If you don't like it, don't read it. Geeze! Even bikers are going politically correct?
By the way, this blog is open to commentary. The BlogSpot version allows you to post a comment right then and there. The version with photos requires you to send me an e-mail.
It was fun to see Token2 regale in this plastic-dominated store filled with metric motorcycles. He truly was happy in his element. He said to me, “Look at this half of the shop: no chrome!” A token no more, these were HIS people!
Unfortunately, he had to nestle amongst Harleys for the ride home.
Before we departed, Token2 had to purchase a new controller for his heated garments. When we got to our stop at top of the GSP (yes, I did finally lead us home), turns out John J. has had trouble with his as well. John J. sent his controller back to Gerbing and the sent it back with a patched wire. John J. is still not happy.
Considering I am a Polar Bear rider that hates the cold, I think I will purchase a second controller as back-up.
My GPS and I agreed upon a homeward route. I wanted to take the more express Interstate 78 back. Simply by hitting the “home” button, my GPS showed me a reasonable route north to I-78 then east to I-287. We had an accord and off I went, bikes trailing behind me.
Unfortunately, most of our bikes were running on fumes, a gas stop sorely needed. I passed up a WAWA, thinking a few of my guys might not appreciate an off-brand fill-up.
(We did not have Grumpy with us. That's significant because he insists not only on brandname gasoline, but also one made from oil pumped under the proper geopolitical circumstances. Hugo Chavez, you listening?)
But the road past the WAWA started looking pretty rural and I was afraid we might not find another gas station. So I circled the procession with a "U" turn, always a move open to derision, and reversed my line of march back to WAWA.
Apparently my GPS took my indecision to indicate a change in plans. And without my knowing it, the GPS took it upon itself to change my route. Captain later said he believes the GPS calculates your route depending upon which way the bike is pointed at the time.
Between the u-turn and then riding around through the filling station, I guess I performed the equivalent of spinning around the blindfolded player in blind man's bluff. My GPS got confused.
The computer still took us home, but sent me back exactly the way I came, stoplights and all.
Sometimes it's hard to tell what or who is in charge, the computer or the user. Speaking of which, I can't wait to see the new Tron movie. Maybe there is a future version where a driver gets sucked into his GPS.
Now that most all our riders are GPS equipped (I was one of the last holdouts) they at least know what I am up to, floundering around at the head of the line as I was. They can follow my every foible, turn-by-turn.
A full line of bikes behind you definitely limits your experimental navigation options. On my own, I would not have sweated the turnaround. I would have simply taken the next State Route indicating “north,” confident in eventually running into I-78.
One advantage of GPS is that you lose your fear of getting lost. My Garmin motorcycle version even has an “off road” function. I can't wait to try that out with Russ at my side. He loves dirt and gravel roads.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Polar Bear Hopewell, NJ; November 28, 2010
November 28, 2010; Hopewell, NJ
By: Chris Loynd
It was a glorious day for polar bearing. Temperatures starting in the thirties had me installing my hippo hands that morning. However the sun was bright and the day warmed to near fifty degrees. I hardly used my electrics at all on the ride home.
Our destination kept us on Interstate 287, a commuter relief highway that runs well west of the New Jersey Turnpike and Garden State Parkway madness. I-287 has its scenic spots. But then we exited onto Route 202 south for a bit of that “strip mall” scenery that pervades the Garden State. Eventually we got off 202 after passing through pharmacy land (also a New Jersey staple) and finally had a scenic ride through farm and horse country. It was a nice finish to the ride down. Coming from the north, we avoided any detour issues in Hopewell proper, farther south of Hillbilly Hall.
We were light, just four bikes: Pogy, Captain, Jim and I. Fearing traffic, some of our guys tried a scenic northern ride. Mac was going to join us but got a better offer at the last minute.
At Dunkin' in Stratford, Captain and I decided it was a good opportunity to have someone else lead and sweep to get a feel for it with our group. So we figured to ask whoever we met at the rest stop in Darien to take over. Pulling off we found Pogy and Jim.
Then to my dismay, but not surprise, I was no sooner stopped than Captain was leading the other two down the on-ramp. I had wanted to stop a moment because I had plugged my electrics into the wrong outlet. I was wearing my Gerbing outer jacket, which isn't much good below 50 degrees and underneath my electric jacket liner. My gloves were plugged into the sleeves of the electric liner. Back at Dunkin' I had plugged into the outer jacket which was providing minimal relief for my body and none for my hands.
Not wanting to lose the group, I chased them out of the rest stop. Then I jetted ahead to catch up to the free-running Captain, and tapping the top of my helmet pulled him, and the others onto the shoulder. I shouted my explanation, but with helmets who knows how much is heard?
As I fiddled with my electrical connections, Captain apparently recalled our Dunkin' conversation. He then pulled up next to Pogy and as we left the shoulder, Pogy was now leading and Jim was sweep. I was Pogy's wing man and Captain fell in behind me.
Pogy did a fine job. He kept a nice and steady pace. He avoided excessive lane changes. Except for missing one of those #%^@* New Jersey jug handles, he was fairly flawless.
I kept as steady in my position as I could to help him out. If you are lead bike, but your wing man is not attentive, you lose the ability to make subtle changes in speed to allow for merging cars, passing, etc. Instead, the wing man becomes the de facto lead rider.
Captain vacillated up and back a bit. But the Captain does that. Usually he is fiddling with something on his bike: GPS, Citizens Band Radio, Weather Receiver, Radar, Sonar, whatever. He has his Road King and Gold Wing loaded with gadgets.
(What a s**t show this MetroNorth railroad offers! I generally like to write my blog on my Monday, sometimes Tuesday, commute from Stratford to Norwalk. This morning I am sitting in an unheated car. It's the second such cold trip this month. The best thing you can say about the train is it is slightly better than the disaster known as I-95.)
Hillbilly Hall was warm and inviting. We had a nice lunch next to a beautiful fire. Cream of broccoli soup was especially delightful. The Ruben was tasty and nicely broiled with the cheese crisp around the edges. Pogy asked the waitress if the sandwich was good here before he ordered. She assured him it was. After she left Captain wondered aloud if she would have said differently. Jim said his experience is that now and then he has encountered honest waitresses who suggested he make another choice. Fortunately, our waitress was telling the truth, fully backed by the kitchen, and she delivered three Ruben sandwiches with crisp fries. Captain had chicken, as always.
Lunchtime conversation drifted dangerously into politics. It started with airport screening. Captain stated he did not feel anyone had a right to avoid the pat downs and low dose x-rays. I suggested such rights were in something called The Constitution and Bill of Rights.
Then we got into 9-11 and whether or not Muslim countries should have apologized. Pogy has considerable dealings throughout the world, including Muslim countries, and his take is that most Muslims are mortified at the portrayal of their religion as terrorist.
My thought is that all religions are terrorist, or at least can be bent to those purposes. No other human invention has the ability to pacify the masses while simultaneously spurring them to worldwide domination. In our lunch conversation, I pointed out it was the Christians that started the Crusades, not the Muslims.
(We all agreed how conveniently history is forgotten or ignored.)
Has the Catholic Church ever apologized for the Spanish Inquisition or witch trials? They excommunicated Galileo for having the temerity to suggest Earth was not the center of the Universe held him in house arrest for the rest of his life, then banished him to purgatory, if you believe in such a thing. He was then stuck there 400 years until Pope John Paul II admitted the church made a mistake.
So maybe the Saudis have a bit of time still to formulate their response.
America has yet to apologize to its Indians or the Vietnamese. Yet we allow casinos as recompense to the former and buy shrimp and sneakers from the latter.
One of the fun things about writing this blog is getting in the last word. But you are welcome to offer you insights. You can e-mail them to me for the photo blog, or post them yourself on the Blog Spot version. I ask only that you avoid profanity and any direct slander of your fellow motorcycle riders.
It's amazing, isn't it, how something as simple as riding motorcycles can bring together such disparate views in a common purpose. We come from all different strata of life, with wide ranging opinions on politics and religion, yet we can agree on riding procedures and lunch, and sometimes, on avoiding traffic.
So we figured to move with alacrity from Hillbilly Hall to avoid traffic, deciding to skip the traditional coffee stop on the return trip as well. Turns out the only thing we had to fear was fear itself.
We cruised nicely up 287 north. Pogy went to follow his GPS' instruction to take 78 to the George Washington Bridge. But as the off-ramp approached, he saw me going wide to stay on 287 and he cut back over.
Approaching the intersection of the Garden State Parkway and I-287 we hit some slow traffic. Maybe we did eight miles of slow traffic. Of that, only the smallest part was stop-and-go. For the most part we putted along feet-up. Once past the exit for the Palisades Parkway, things picked up nicely.
Really the worst traffic we hit was in Connecticut. But that is always the case. I have traveled around this country and Canada, by motorcycle and car, and invariably the worst traffic jams are in this over packed state of ours. You can sail past New York City and still get slammed on I-95 approaching Stamford, the Merrit Parkway approaching Greenwich or I-84 approaching Danbury, in the middle of the night, on a weekday. There's no easy way in or out of this frickin' state.
So it was Trumbull Mall traffic that slammed us hardest. We were on the Merritt Parkway. Fortunately, I had Captain who knows every back road in and around Bridgeport. We tolerated the parkway traffic only long enough to catch the Route 59 exit in Fairfield. Captain, who I am sure enjoyed the opportunity to show off his local navigation skills, led us over one road and down the next 'till we popped out in Stratford with but a trifle of stop signs and stop lights impeding our progress.
It was doubly enjoyable for me because I followed Captain all the way to a convenient to both of us gas station and then accepted his invitation to visit his home, currently under extensive renovations.
Captain is taking his abode off the grid. A new roof, turned and reoriented to catch the southern exposure, is covered in solar panels for heat, hot water and electricity. He confidently said that when completed he will be selling electricity back to the power company. He has a battery array that will support his home, refrigerator, microwave, TV, et. al., for three days bereft of sunshine. Sort of like a submarine on land, if you will.
Me, I am perhaps a fatalist instead of a survivalist. When the apocalypse comes, I am more in mind to watch it unfurl with a glass of good port and a fine cigar. But if you want to run and hide for a chance to emerge in the smoldering aftermath, here's Captain's home address: 1313 Mockingbird Lane, what?, you thought I would really do that to one of my riding buddies? Besides, Captain would probably shoot you anyway. He wouldn't want to. But in dire circumstances . . .well, did you read last week's blog?
Meanwhile, if the end of the world holds off until this summer, Captain and I fantasized about a CT Polar Bear party on his newly-built deck, overlooking his newly-built dock on the Housatonic River. Maybe Pogy can bring his boat up and offer some party cruises as well?
If the world still exists this Sunday, and the weather's amenable, I plan on riding to Montgomeryville Cycle Center. It's one of our longer rides, famous for good food and bad weather. Here's hoping we get lucky on both.
By: Chris Loynd
It was a glorious day for polar bearing. Temperatures starting in the thirties had me installing my hippo hands that morning. However the sun was bright and the day warmed to near fifty degrees. I hardly used my electrics at all on the ride home.
Our destination kept us on Interstate 287, a commuter relief highway that runs well west of the New Jersey Turnpike and Garden State Parkway madness. I-287 has its scenic spots. But then we exited onto Route 202 south for a bit of that “strip mall” scenery that pervades the Garden State. Eventually we got off 202 after passing through pharmacy land (also a New Jersey staple) and finally had a scenic ride through farm and horse country. It was a nice finish to the ride down. Coming from the north, we avoided any detour issues in Hopewell proper, farther south of Hillbilly Hall.
We were light, just four bikes: Pogy, Captain, Jim and I. Fearing traffic, some of our guys tried a scenic northern ride. Mac was going to join us but got a better offer at the last minute.
At Dunkin' in Stratford, Captain and I decided it was a good opportunity to have someone else lead and sweep to get a feel for it with our group. So we figured to ask whoever we met at the rest stop in Darien to take over. Pulling off we found Pogy and Jim.
Then to my dismay, but not surprise, I was no sooner stopped than Captain was leading the other two down the on-ramp. I had wanted to stop a moment because I had plugged my electrics into the wrong outlet. I was wearing my Gerbing outer jacket, which isn't much good below 50 degrees and underneath my electric jacket liner. My gloves were plugged into the sleeves of the electric liner. Back at Dunkin' I had plugged into the outer jacket which was providing minimal relief for my body and none for my hands.
Not wanting to lose the group, I chased them out of the rest stop. Then I jetted ahead to catch up to the free-running Captain, and tapping the top of my helmet pulled him, and the others onto the shoulder. I shouted my explanation, but with helmets who knows how much is heard?
As I fiddled with my electrical connections, Captain apparently recalled our Dunkin' conversation. He then pulled up next to Pogy and as we left the shoulder, Pogy was now leading and Jim was sweep. I was Pogy's wing man and Captain fell in behind me.
Pogy did a fine job. He kept a nice and steady pace. He avoided excessive lane changes. Except for missing one of those #%^@* New Jersey jug handles, he was fairly flawless.
I kept as steady in my position as I could to help him out. If you are lead bike, but your wing man is not attentive, you lose the ability to make subtle changes in speed to allow for merging cars, passing, etc. Instead, the wing man becomes the de facto lead rider.
Captain vacillated up and back a bit. But the Captain does that. Usually he is fiddling with something on his bike: GPS, Citizens Band Radio, Weather Receiver, Radar, Sonar, whatever. He has his Road King and Gold Wing loaded with gadgets.
(What a s**t show this MetroNorth railroad offers! I generally like to write my blog on my Monday, sometimes Tuesday, commute from Stratford to Norwalk. This morning I am sitting in an unheated car. It's the second such cold trip this month. The best thing you can say about the train is it is slightly better than the disaster known as I-95.)
Hillbilly Hall was warm and inviting. We had a nice lunch next to a beautiful fire. Cream of broccoli soup was especially delightful. The Ruben was tasty and nicely broiled with the cheese crisp around the edges. Pogy asked the waitress if the sandwich was good here before he ordered. She assured him it was. After she left Captain wondered aloud if she would have said differently. Jim said his experience is that now and then he has encountered honest waitresses who suggested he make another choice. Fortunately, our waitress was telling the truth, fully backed by the kitchen, and she delivered three Ruben sandwiches with crisp fries. Captain had chicken, as always.
Lunchtime conversation drifted dangerously into politics. It started with airport screening. Captain stated he did not feel anyone had a right to avoid the pat downs and low dose x-rays. I suggested such rights were in something called The Constitution and Bill of Rights.
Then we got into 9-11 and whether or not Muslim countries should have apologized. Pogy has considerable dealings throughout the world, including Muslim countries, and his take is that most Muslims are mortified at the portrayal of their religion as terrorist.
My thought is that all religions are terrorist, or at least can be bent to those purposes. No other human invention has the ability to pacify the masses while simultaneously spurring them to worldwide domination. In our lunch conversation, I pointed out it was the Christians that started the Crusades, not the Muslims.
(We all agreed how conveniently history is forgotten or ignored.)
Has the Catholic Church ever apologized for the Spanish Inquisition or witch trials? They excommunicated Galileo for having the temerity to suggest Earth was not the center of the Universe held him in house arrest for the rest of his life, then banished him to purgatory, if you believe in such a thing. He was then stuck there 400 years until Pope John Paul II admitted the church made a mistake.
So maybe the Saudis have a bit of time still to formulate their response.
America has yet to apologize to its Indians or the Vietnamese. Yet we allow casinos as recompense to the former and buy shrimp and sneakers from the latter.
One of the fun things about writing this blog is getting in the last word. But you are welcome to offer you insights. You can e-mail them to me for the photo blog, or post them yourself on the Blog Spot version. I ask only that you avoid profanity and any direct slander of your fellow motorcycle riders.
It's amazing, isn't it, how something as simple as riding motorcycles can bring together such disparate views in a common purpose. We come from all different strata of life, with wide ranging opinions on politics and religion, yet we can agree on riding procedures and lunch, and sometimes, on avoiding traffic.
So we figured to move with alacrity from Hillbilly Hall to avoid traffic, deciding to skip the traditional coffee stop on the return trip as well. Turns out the only thing we had to fear was fear itself.
We cruised nicely up 287 north. Pogy went to follow his GPS' instruction to take 78 to the George Washington Bridge. But as the off-ramp approached, he saw me going wide to stay on 287 and he cut back over.
Approaching the intersection of the Garden State Parkway and I-287 we hit some slow traffic. Maybe we did eight miles of slow traffic. Of that, only the smallest part was stop-and-go. For the most part we putted along feet-up. Once past the exit for the Palisades Parkway, things picked up nicely.
Really the worst traffic we hit was in Connecticut. But that is always the case. I have traveled around this country and Canada, by motorcycle and car, and invariably the worst traffic jams are in this over packed state of ours. You can sail past New York City and still get slammed on I-95 approaching Stamford, the Merrit Parkway approaching Greenwich or I-84 approaching Danbury, in the middle of the night, on a weekday. There's no easy way in or out of this frickin' state.
So it was Trumbull Mall traffic that slammed us hardest. We were on the Merritt Parkway. Fortunately, I had Captain who knows every back road in and around Bridgeport. We tolerated the parkway traffic only long enough to catch the Route 59 exit in Fairfield. Captain, who I am sure enjoyed the opportunity to show off his local navigation skills, led us over one road and down the next 'till we popped out in Stratford with but a trifle of stop signs and stop lights impeding our progress.
It was doubly enjoyable for me because I followed Captain all the way to a convenient to both of us gas station and then accepted his invitation to visit his home, currently under extensive renovations.
Captain is taking his abode off the grid. A new roof, turned and reoriented to catch the southern exposure, is covered in solar panels for heat, hot water and electricity. He confidently said that when completed he will be selling electricity back to the power company. He has a battery array that will support his home, refrigerator, microwave, TV, et. al., for three days bereft of sunshine. Sort of like a submarine on land, if you will.
Me, I am perhaps a fatalist instead of a survivalist. When the apocalypse comes, I am more in mind to watch it unfurl with a glass of good port and a fine cigar. But if you want to run and hide for a chance to emerge in the smoldering aftermath, here's Captain's home address: 1313 Mockingbird Lane, what?, you thought I would really do that to one of my riding buddies? Besides, Captain would probably shoot you anyway. He wouldn't want to. But in dire circumstances . . .well, did you read last week's blog?
Meanwhile, if the end of the world holds off until this summer, Captain and I fantasized about a CT Polar Bear party on his newly-built deck, overlooking his newly-built dock on the Housatonic River. Maybe Pogy can bring his boat up and offer some party cruises as well?
If the world still exists this Sunday, and the weather's amenable, I plan on riding to Montgomeryville Cycle Center. It's one of our longer rides, famous for good food and bad weather. Here's hoping we get lucky on both.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Polar Bear Port Jervis, NY; November 21, 2010
Polar Bear Port Jervis, NY; November 21, 2010
By: Chris Loynd
Well the chill is in the air, but not yet the winter. I still have not installed my hippo hands. Fonz got a new set and I like the way they fit over his master cylinder. He got the actual, branded, Hippo Hands. I have a knockoff pair.
Fonz had his electrics this time, but I didn't get a chance to get his report on how he liked them. More on that later in the blog.
Pogy had navigation problems. Fortunately, he had some good bikes to lead him to and fro. Every week I send out an alert e-mail to our Connecticut and affiliated Polar Bears. In that e-mail I detail our destination and departure time. For years now I have repeated the same line, over and over, that we meet at the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, just off I-95, Exit 30, at the corner of Lordship Blvd. and Honeyspot Rd. So last week I finally got tired of repeating myself, figured everyone knew the Dunkin' by now, and merely said we would meet at the Dunkin' on Lordship Blvd. In so doing, we almost lost Pogy before we started.
My first clue to Pogy's navigation issues should have been a couple days earlier when he asked if I meant to say we were going to Port Jervis in New Jersey, not New York. I flippantly replied that we would stop at the first Port Jervis we came to on Interstate 84.
Port Jervis, New York, is right at the confluence of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. So I figured Pogy was looking at a map and was simply mistakenly identifying the state.
Turns out when we got a chance to talk at lunch in Port Jervis, NY, he was thinking of Port Jarvis, NJ. He was headed for the Jersey shore. Glad he didn't set his sights on that one! And by the way, Google has never heard of the place!
I guess he was consulting his naval charts instead of land maps.
At the Cornucopia, he made a disparaging comment such that Port Jervis must not be much of a port because it is inland. In fact it was once a very important port on the Delaware River, doubly so in 1828 when the Hudson and Delaware canal was completed. The canal created a highly profitable conduit for Pennsylvania anthracite coal from the Moosic mountains to New York City. It offered an American answer to problems caused by importation of British bituminous coal. The city was renamed from the Indian settlement inspired Mahackamack to Port Jervis in honor of John Bloomfield Jervis, an engineer on the canal project.
Port Jervis' other claims to fame include being raided and burned before the Batle of Minisink in 1779 and for a famous lynching in 1892. More recently Port Jervis was named #1 coolest small town by Budget Magazine.
Maybe the confusion is because Pogy has the heart of a waterman. He has a boat for pleasure cruising. But he also rides a working boat for leisure. When he's not fishing for helicopter buyers, his idea of a good time is the kind of work most people say is a very tough way to make a living. I forget if it was dredging for oysters or pulling lobster traps. It is hard, wet, often cold work, generally started before dawn and pursued in all weather. Long Island Sound ain't exactly “Deadliest Catch,” still it is tough stuff, double tough. But Pogy does it for fun.
Meanwhile, the one week I don't give the exact Dunkin' meeting location in my pre-ride e-mail, Pogy decides to ride up from Norwalk to meet us in Stratford and is waiting at another Dunkin' in Stratford. (Usually we pick him up en route at the Darien rest stop on I-95.) Pogy said he thought I meant this other, particular Dunkin' on Lordship Blvd. But no matter how you fold the map, he was sitting at the corner of Main St. and Access Rd. He did get the right town, thank heavens.
Fortunately, I live nearby and Pogy saw me blow by his Dunkin' on my way to the Dunkin' where the rest of us CT Bears were waiting. (I thought those Gold Wings had GPS built in?)
He fired up the Gold Wing and caught up to us before we departed.
As did Fonz, see his explanation in the photo version of the blog at: http://www.influentialcom.com/ . He pulled a “Chris” by showing up just as everyone else was kicking up their kickstands.
After the grumbling last week about our group riding technique, and despite your Blogger's perfect ride leadership skills, we decided to break into two groups this week. It certainly is easier to manage. But as one of our guys said, it is not nearly as cool.
I took the first group. We put the biggest grumbler from last week at the head of the second column.
It was gratifying to see that our CT Bears are reading the blog. Last week I spent a bit of space in this blog reviewing proper group riding technique with an emphasis on lane changing. I am happy to report, as evidenced by looking through my rear view mirrors, my words were not wasted.
We enjoyed a smooth and flawless ride. It is also a pretty one, if a biker can use such terms.
Connecticut's Route 34 is scenic and twisty, angling from Derby to Danbury. Then Interstate 84 is far less frenetic than I-95. It is far enough away from New York City to make it somewhat pleasurable to ride, especially when traffic is light.
You go up and down some mountains, the high points opening to vista views. Much of the road also follows rivers and these are lined with willow trees, still holding their thousands of tiny yellow leaflets when the other deciduous trees have relinquished their coverings. This makes the willows' cascading branches look like fireworks fountains scattered amongst the winter-dead landscape.
The Cornucopia in Port Jervis has a nice, big, paved parking lot. My group arrived first and I was able to get off my bike in time to catch some good riding shots of our second group arriving.
Proprietors offered a delicious buffet at a bargain 10 bucks. We were early enough to be first through the line. It appeared we were the only ones eating. Hopefully the crowd picked up later. The restaurant does a nice job of accommodating the Bears and deserves to be rewarded.
CT Bear talk was mostly of motorcycle things. Russ was telling big stories, as only Russ can do. Some of the discussion was about the upcoming Sunday's ride. It is the Sunday after Thanksgiving and last year we spent a bit of time in traffic. Unfortunately, being from Connecticut we have to get around New York City and over the Hudson River to get home after visiting Hillybilly Hall. Ugh!
For some reason, there was a lot of talk of carry permits. (This too came into play later in the day.)
Discussion revolved around which states offered reciprocal permits, apparently anyone from anywhere can carry a concealed weapon in Florida. There was some knowledgeable advice on how to transport a gun across states where you do not have a permit. All I know is if we are ever stopped and searched, I know nothing! I hear nothing! I see nothing! I say nothing!
On the other hand, if the Polar Bear Grand Tour ever adds a Newark destination, I would not want to ride with anybody but these guys.
For the ride home, I asked Captain to switch places with me; he would take lead and I would be sweep. I was unfamiliar with the Danbury Starbucks where we planned to take our coffee break. Another seemingly small decision had hour-long consequences.
Captain quickly capitulated to Bart. I'm not sure why. It really mattered not to me, except that Bart was maybe a little heavy on the horses for my taste.
I figure my old girl with 130,000-plus miles on the original mill will last the Polar Bear season if I baby her. I am no mechanic, but I do have some intrinsic sense that all the moving parts work harder at 80 mph than they do at 70.
Nonetheless, I kept up with the group.
Everybody should ride sweep at some time. You see everything. You see smooth riders, and jerky ones, and suffer most by the rubber band speeds caused by the jerky ones. You see riders who hold their lane position, and others who wander such that you wonder if they suffer vertigo.
Since my mini treatise on group riding last week seemed to bear fruit, here is another installment.
Group riding is not like riding by yourself or with a friend or two. You have a responsibility to the other riders in your group. Group riding requires a far higher attention and awareness than cruising by yourself on a Sunday afternoon.
To be fair to your fellow riders, you need to stay in your space, horizontally and vertically, as tightly as possible. You should make micro adjustments in your speed, not macro ones. Rolling off then speeding up is multiplied by every bike behind you trying to adjust to your inattentiveness. The sweep rider gets the worst of it.
Drifting left and right scares your fellow riders. They don't know if you are not paying attention or unable to ride smoothly in a straight line. Neither is a safe nor comfortable conclusion.
On the ride home we had some confusion at the Beacon Falls bridge tolls. Gates again. Wonder if some of these guys' EZ Passes ever read?
We managed to regroup and rode for a bit then Captain dropped out and onto the shoulder. As sweep, I dropped out to see what was up. Kevin dropped out too. As I rode up to the Captain, his bike was complaining loudly, “clack, clack, clack.” Captain shouted, “I think it's a bearing.”
Have you seen the tee shirts “Ride it Like You Stole it”? Well Captain rode it like he was gonna blow it. It didn't. Blow up, that is. But the motor did stop. Captain coasted along the shoulder until he found a mile marker sign.
I'm following, thinking, “Stop here. This is the sunny spot.” But the mile marker was in deep shade.
Hey, sun can make a big difference in warmth on a cold November day.
“I'm done,” Captain said as I pulled alongside. Kevin dropped to the shoulder too. Per procedure, the rest of the bikes kept going, headed to warm lattes in Danbury.
One of the foibles of Harley Owners' Group towing insurance is that they will tow your bike only to the nearest Harley dealership. That would have meant Danbury H-D. And then Captain would have to travel back and forth an hour one way from his Milford home. So instead he called his insurance company. Only they pretended not to know him.
First they said he would have to pay for the tow because they could not find his policy. “Fine, lady, I'll pay,” Captain said, “just send someone to come get me!”
Next they asked his permission to access the GPS function on his cell phone to verify his position. “Fine lady,” Captain said, “just send someone to come get me!”
Okay, they said they would call back. Then Captain's Blackberry bit the big one.
Next he called the insurance company back on my cell phone and gave them that number as an alternate call back number. I don't know if he let them access my GPS function. But I have noticed the geckos at the Aquarium looking at me in a strange way.
Captain discovered that by keeping his Blackberry stored in his armpit he was able to squeeze a few more moments out of the battery. I told you to stop in the sunshine.
In fact, getting cold, Kevin and I decided to push Captain's bike up the hill to a sunny spot on the shoulder. This was the same time the State Trooper decided to stop by.
I walked back and told him the guy up the hill was the one with trouble. So he pulled his squad car out and around to the Captain. I followed on my bike. Kevin decided he was superfluous and headed for home.
Turns out the insurance company sent the state trooper to verify Captain was in fact broken down on the shoulder of Interstate 84.
The cop took Captain's license and walked back to his car. “They're checking for wants and warrants,” Captain explained. “You're not packing?” I asked, considering the lunchtime conversation. I mean I figure being sweep bike obligates me to spend an hour or two on the shoulder with a broken down bike. But a night in jail seems over and above the call of duty.
Captain immediately responded with a firm “no” delivered with a warm and confident smile. At first I was relieved. But then I thought to myself that his response was the standard one anyone carrying a concealed gun would give. What good is it to carry a CONCEALED weapon if everyone knows you have one? I must say Captain delivered the line well.
Now that we had been properly identified and verified, the trooper cleared a tow truck who was only some 15 minutes away. (Fortunately the officer did not ask to search us.) In fact, the trooper was great and offered to let us warm up in his car. But my heart was still pumping, a trickle of sweat rolling down my back, after pushing Captain's bike up the hill. Plus now we were standing in streaming sunlight.
We told the trooper we were good and he said to just call if we needed anything.
Sure enough some 15 minutes later the tow truck appears.
We spent 45 minutes arranging for a tow truck that was waiting for a call a mere 15 minutes away. Hmmm, seems the logistics workers at the insurance company could have done a better job.
Captain negotiates a ride to his shop, Laurel and Harley in Stratford. We strap his Road King to the roll back truck. I offered to follow Captain and the truck to Stratford. I live there and figured I could get my car to give Captain a ride home from the shop.
Captain said the tow truck driver said he liked to haul ass. And he did. There went that many more RPMs on my old Springer's mill. But we all got home just fine. Next Sunday, Captain will be on his Wing. I hear they never break down.
Thank you Captain for teaching me a valuable lesson. I had always worried, been afraid even, of breaking down. My bike has so far had a legendary ability to break down only on the doorstop of a qualified Harley-Davidson dealership.
But Captain demonstrated for me that it's no big deal.
All told we were delayed a bit more than an hour. The insurance company, state police and tow company came to our aid; they were friendly, competent and capable. Captain later said the insurance company eventually recognized him and will reimburse his expenditure.
I will bring my cell phone charger with me on every ride from now on. And I will pick up one of those battery-operated emergency phone chargers as a back up solution.
Still, I am no longer afraid to “Ride it 'Till it Quits.” See you Sunday. Maybe.
By: Chris Loynd
Well the chill is in the air, but not yet the winter. I still have not installed my hippo hands. Fonz got a new set and I like the way they fit over his master cylinder. He got the actual, branded, Hippo Hands. I have a knockoff pair.
Fonz had his electrics this time, but I didn't get a chance to get his report on how he liked them. More on that later in the blog.
Pogy had navigation problems. Fortunately, he had some good bikes to lead him to and fro. Every week I send out an alert e-mail to our Connecticut and affiliated Polar Bears. In that e-mail I detail our destination and departure time. For years now I have repeated the same line, over and over, that we meet at the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, just off I-95, Exit 30, at the corner of Lordship Blvd. and Honeyspot Rd. So last week I finally got tired of repeating myself, figured everyone knew the Dunkin' by now, and merely said we would meet at the Dunkin' on Lordship Blvd. In so doing, we almost lost Pogy before we started.
My first clue to Pogy's navigation issues should have been a couple days earlier when he asked if I meant to say we were going to Port Jervis in New Jersey, not New York. I flippantly replied that we would stop at the first Port Jervis we came to on Interstate 84.
Port Jervis, New York, is right at the confluence of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. So I figured Pogy was looking at a map and was simply mistakenly identifying the state.
Turns out when we got a chance to talk at lunch in Port Jervis, NY, he was thinking of Port Jarvis, NJ. He was headed for the Jersey shore. Glad he didn't set his sights on that one! And by the way, Google has never heard of the place!
I guess he was consulting his naval charts instead of land maps.
At the Cornucopia, he made a disparaging comment such that Port Jervis must not be much of a port because it is inland. In fact it was once a very important port on the Delaware River, doubly so in 1828 when the Hudson and Delaware canal was completed. The canal created a highly profitable conduit for Pennsylvania anthracite coal from the Moosic mountains to New York City. It offered an American answer to problems caused by importation of British bituminous coal. The city was renamed from the Indian settlement inspired Mahackamack to Port Jervis in honor of John Bloomfield Jervis, an engineer on the canal project.
Port Jervis' other claims to fame include being raided and burned before the Batle of Minisink in 1779 and for a famous lynching in 1892. More recently Port Jervis was named #1 coolest small town by Budget Magazine.
Maybe the confusion is because Pogy has the heart of a waterman. He has a boat for pleasure cruising. But he also rides a working boat for leisure. When he's not fishing for helicopter buyers, his idea of a good time is the kind of work most people say is a very tough way to make a living. I forget if it was dredging for oysters or pulling lobster traps. It is hard, wet, often cold work, generally started before dawn and pursued in all weather. Long Island Sound ain't exactly “Deadliest Catch,” still it is tough stuff, double tough. But Pogy does it for fun.
Meanwhile, the one week I don't give the exact Dunkin' meeting location in my pre-ride e-mail, Pogy decides to ride up from Norwalk to meet us in Stratford and is waiting at another Dunkin' in Stratford. (Usually we pick him up en route at the Darien rest stop on I-95.) Pogy said he thought I meant this other, particular Dunkin' on Lordship Blvd. But no matter how you fold the map, he was sitting at the corner of Main St. and Access Rd. He did get the right town, thank heavens.
Fortunately, I live nearby and Pogy saw me blow by his Dunkin' on my way to the Dunkin' where the rest of us CT Bears were waiting. (I thought those Gold Wings had GPS built in?)
He fired up the Gold Wing and caught up to us before we departed.
As did Fonz, see his explanation in the photo version of the blog at: http://www.influentialcom.com/ . He pulled a “Chris” by showing up just as everyone else was kicking up their kickstands.
After the grumbling last week about our group riding technique, and despite your Blogger's perfect ride leadership skills, we decided to break into two groups this week. It certainly is easier to manage. But as one of our guys said, it is not nearly as cool.
I took the first group. We put the biggest grumbler from last week at the head of the second column.
It was gratifying to see that our CT Bears are reading the blog. Last week I spent a bit of space in this blog reviewing proper group riding technique with an emphasis on lane changing. I am happy to report, as evidenced by looking through my rear view mirrors, my words were not wasted.
We enjoyed a smooth and flawless ride. It is also a pretty one, if a biker can use such terms.
Connecticut's Route 34 is scenic and twisty, angling from Derby to Danbury. Then Interstate 84 is far less frenetic than I-95. It is far enough away from New York City to make it somewhat pleasurable to ride, especially when traffic is light.
You go up and down some mountains, the high points opening to vista views. Much of the road also follows rivers and these are lined with willow trees, still holding their thousands of tiny yellow leaflets when the other deciduous trees have relinquished their coverings. This makes the willows' cascading branches look like fireworks fountains scattered amongst the winter-dead landscape.
The Cornucopia in Port Jervis has a nice, big, paved parking lot. My group arrived first and I was able to get off my bike in time to catch some good riding shots of our second group arriving.
Proprietors offered a delicious buffet at a bargain 10 bucks. We were early enough to be first through the line. It appeared we were the only ones eating. Hopefully the crowd picked up later. The restaurant does a nice job of accommodating the Bears and deserves to be rewarded.
CT Bear talk was mostly of motorcycle things. Russ was telling big stories, as only Russ can do. Some of the discussion was about the upcoming Sunday's ride. It is the Sunday after Thanksgiving and last year we spent a bit of time in traffic. Unfortunately, being from Connecticut we have to get around New York City and over the Hudson River to get home after visiting Hillybilly Hall. Ugh!
For some reason, there was a lot of talk of carry permits. (This too came into play later in the day.)
Discussion revolved around which states offered reciprocal permits, apparently anyone from anywhere can carry a concealed weapon in Florida. There was some knowledgeable advice on how to transport a gun across states where you do not have a permit. All I know is if we are ever stopped and searched, I know nothing! I hear nothing! I see nothing! I say nothing!
On the other hand, if the Polar Bear Grand Tour ever adds a Newark destination, I would not want to ride with anybody but these guys.
For the ride home, I asked Captain to switch places with me; he would take lead and I would be sweep. I was unfamiliar with the Danbury Starbucks where we planned to take our coffee break. Another seemingly small decision had hour-long consequences.
Captain quickly capitulated to Bart. I'm not sure why. It really mattered not to me, except that Bart was maybe a little heavy on the horses for my taste.
I figure my old girl with 130,000-plus miles on the original mill will last the Polar Bear season if I baby her. I am no mechanic, but I do have some intrinsic sense that all the moving parts work harder at 80 mph than they do at 70.
Nonetheless, I kept up with the group.
Everybody should ride sweep at some time. You see everything. You see smooth riders, and jerky ones, and suffer most by the rubber band speeds caused by the jerky ones. You see riders who hold their lane position, and others who wander such that you wonder if they suffer vertigo.
Since my mini treatise on group riding last week seemed to bear fruit, here is another installment.
Group riding is not like riding by yourself or with a friend or two. You have a responsibility to the other riders in your group. Group riding requires a far higher attention and awareness than cruising by yourself on a Sunday afternoon.
To be fair to your fellow riders, you need to stay in your space, horizontally and vertically, as tightly as possible. You should make micro adjustments in your speed, not macro ones. Rolling off then speeding up is multiplied by every bike behind you trying to adjust to your inattentiveness. The sweep rider gets the worst of it.
Drifting left and right scares your fellow riders. They don't know if you are not paying attention or unable to ride smoothly in a straight line. Neither is a safe nor comfortable conclusion.
On the ride home we had some confusion at the Beacon Falls bridge tolls. Gates again. Wonder if some of these guys' EZ Passes ever read?
We managed to regroup and rode for a bit then Captain dropped out and onto the shoulder. As sweep, I dropped out to see what was up. Kevin dropped out too. As I rode up to the Captain, his bike was complaining loudly, “clack, clack, clack.” Captain shouted, “I think it's a bearing.”
Have you seen the tee shirts “Ride it Like You Stole it”? Well Captain rode it like he was gonna blow it. It didn't. Blow up, that is. But the motor did stop. Captain coasted along the shoulder until he found a mile marker sign.
I'm following, thinking, “Stop here. This is the sunny spot.” But the mile marker was in deep shade.
Hey, sun can make a big difference in warmth on a cold November day.
“I'm done,” Captain said as I pulled alongside. Kevin dropped to the shoulder too. Per procedure, the rest of the bikes kept going, headed to warm lattes in Danbury.
One of the foibles of Harley Owners' Group towing insurance is that they will tow your bike only to the nearest Harley dealership. That would have meant Danbury H-D. And then Captain would have to travel back and forth an hour one way from his Milford home. So instead he called his insurance company. Only they pretended not to know him.
First they said he would have to pay for the tow because they could not find his policy. “Fine, lady, I'll pay,” Captain said, “just send someone to come get me!”
Next they asked his permission to access the GPS function on his cell phone to verify his position. “Fine lady,” Captain said, “just send someone to come get me!”
Okay, they said they would call back. Then Captain's Blackberry bit the big one.
Next he called the insurance company back on my cell phone and gave them that number as an alternate call back number. I don't know if he let them access my GPS function. But I have noticed the geckos at the Aquarium looking at me in a strange way.
Captain discovered that by keeping his Blackberry stored in his armpit he was able to squeeze a few more moments out of the battery. I told you to stop in the sunshine.
In fact, getting cold, Kevin and I decided to push Captain's bike up the hill to a sunny spot on the shoulder. This was the same time the State Trooper decided to stop by.
I walked back and told him the guy up the hill was the one with trouble. So he pulled his squad car out and around to the Captain. I followed on my bike. Kevin decided he was superfluous and headed for home.
Turns out the insurance company sent the state trooper to verify Captain was in fact broken down on the shoulder of Interstate 84.
The cop took Captain's license and walked back to his car. “They're checking for wants and warrants,” Captain explained. “You're not packing?” I asked, considering the lunchtime conversation. I mean I figure being sweep bike obligates me to spend an hour or two on the shoulder with a broken down bike. But a night in jail seems over and above the call of duty.
Captain immediately responded with a firm “no” delivered with a warm and confident smile. At first I was relieved. But then I thought to myself that his response was the standard one anyone carrying a concealed gun would give. What good is it to carry a CONCEALED weapon if everyone knows you have one? I must say Captain delivered the line well.
Now that we had been properly identified and verified, the trooper cleared a tow truck who was only some 15 minutes away. (Fortunately the officer did not ask to search us.) In fact, the trooper was great and offered to let us warm up in his car. But my heart was still pumping, a trickle of sweat rolling down my back, after pushing Captain's bike up the hill. Plus now we were standing in streaming sunlight.
We told the trooper we were good and he said to just call if we needed anything.
Sure enough some 15 minutes later the tow truck appears.
We spent 45 minutes arranging for a tow truck that was waiting for a call a mere 15 minutes away. Hmmm, seems the logistics workers at the insurance company could have done a better job.
Captain negotiates a ride to his shop, Laurel and Harley in Stratford. We strap his Road King to the roll back truck. I offered to follow Captain and the truck to Stratford. I live there and figured I could get my car to give Captain a ride home from the shop.
Captain said the tow truck driver said he liked to haul ass. And he did. There went that many more RPMs on my old Springer's mill. But we all got home just fine. Next Sunday, Captain will be on his Wing. I hear they never break down.
Thank you Captain for teaching me a valuable lesson. I had always worried, been afraid even, of breaking down. My bike has so far had a legendary ability to break down only on the doorstop of a qualified Harley-Davidson dealership.
But Captain demonstrated for me that it's no big deal.
All told we were delayed a bit more than an hour. The insurance company, state police and tow company came to our aid; they were friendly, competent and capable. Captain later said the insurance company eventually recognized him and will reimburse his expenditure.
I will bring my cell phone charger with me on every ride from now on. And I will pick up one of those battery-operated emergency phone chargers as a back up solution.
Still, I am no longer afraid to “Ride it 'Till it Quits.” See you Sunday. Maybe.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Polar Bear Old Bridge, NJ; November 14, 2010
Old Bridge, NJ; November 14, 2010
By: Chris Loynd
Indian Summer! Are there any two descriptive words more delicious to the psyche?
Well, thinking upon it, perhaps there are a few others: winning ticket, tax refund, motel sex.
It was a gorgeous Indian Summer weekend. Every convertible owner dropped his top. I saw a beautiful Morgan tooling along with a spry older couple. Joggers reverted to shorts. Folks in their shirtsleeves were out in their yards raking leaves. Motorcycles appeared like mushrooms after a summer rain.
It was a wonderful day to ride, almost too warm for Polar Bear motorcycles. Likely I could have done with one less layer. I plugged in my electric jacket and gloves, but barely employed them. And when we got stuck in stop-and-go traffic on Route 18 north headed home, I cooked. It felt great.
I do not choose to ride my motorcycle in winter because I like being cold. I much prefer riding across Arizona mesas in streaming sun wearing my mesh jacket. I ride in winter because I cannot imagine putting my motorcycle away for three months. I would love it if polar bear season was like this every weekend. Ah, but fate landed me in Stratford, not Savannah.
Warm weather means big turnouts. We drew a crowd that eventually swelled to 12 bikes.
At the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, at a very reasonable morning hour of 9:30, owing to the short distance, Captain and your blogger had a discussion about breaking into two groups.
Riding in one large group can have some special challenges. Ten or more motorcycles, riding in staggered formation, gets to be a very long line. Leading such is like managing a train running through multi-lane interstates. Lane changing must be kept to an absolute minimum.
Still the Captain convinced me to keep together in one group with this statement, “These guys are all good riders. They know what to do.”
John J. was offered the lead, cajoled may be more like it. He whiffed. So I stepped up to the challenge. John J. instead fell in as the last bike, the “sweep” position.
Isn't it amazing how small, seemingly innocuous, decisions can have major consequences, unforeseen?
“We don't need enough lifeboats for every passenger; Titanic is unsinkable.” “We can get the Donner wagons over the mountains before the really heavy snows come.” “Read my lips, no new taxes.”
We left Stratford with a manageable eight bikes. Even with that many, it is nearly impossible for the lead bike to see the sweep, the sweep being just too far back. So we rely upon some procedures to manage the ride so it is fun and safe and successful for all.
Each rider knows his place in a safe, staggered, formation. It is important that the group remain tight to prevent the incursion of cars. Each rider holds his lane position.
There are special duties for the lead and sweep riders.
The lead has to find very big holes in traffic before signaling for a lane change. He has to allow for merging on ramps; tolls can be a real challenge.
The sweep watches for what the lead can't see. He picks up stragglers and clears for lane changes.
Changing lanes with a big group of bikes can be done safely and smoothly, if the riders are disciplined. The lead signals a lane change but does not move. All the other bikes pass the signal back to the sweep, but do NOT move. When traffic is clear the sweep moves over. Now the line of bikes controls two lanes, the current and future lanes.
Any cars stuck next to the bikes in the target lane will move up and out of the way. The sweep holds the lane, preventing any other cars from entering. When the lane is clear the lead moves over, all the other bikes following.
When done properly it is a marvel to see.
Unfortunately, some guy in the middle typically just can't wait. He sees the signal to move and jumps over to the next lane, effectively trapping a car in the space the sweep had hoped to clear. Now the sweep, and any bikes ahead of him but behind the trapped car, must make a dash around to get in front of the trapped car and back in line.
I digress, dear blog reader, but only slightly.
Sunday we had a new rider, Bob V., self-admitted Polar Cub, still Bob is an experienced rider and road captain and knows the drill.
Bob does not have EZ Pass and clearly announced that ahead of time.
So the way that works is as we approach a toll, the rider without EZ Pass zooms ahead a bit, headed for the cash lane. Meanwhile the leader slows the rest of the group approaching the EZ Pass lanes. If the leader figures the differential correctly, the rider paying cash is ready to rejoin the line just as the Pass riders exit the tolls.
Sounds good, right?
We reviewed the procedure with Bob\ and headed south.
We exited at the Darien rest stop to pick up three more riders: Jim, Fonz and Scott.
I planned to exit – instead of picking them up as we rode by like we usually do – because Fonz needed some adaptive connectors I had for an electric vest he was going to borrow from Pogy. So far Fonz has been trying to get by with a battery powered vest for warmth, as in running off of a 9-volt in his pocket, instead of wired to his motorcycle's electrical system.
No really. Batteries. It works fine when Fonz is standing still. But at speed it is probably good so long as the ambient temperature is above 70 degrees.
Only Fonz did not borrow the vest, forgot about the connectors, and expected us to just blow by on the Interstate side. He had his other riders hyped to run down the on ramp to join our line of bikes. That explains the quizzical look Fonz gave me when I pulled to a stop next to him.
“Connectors?” I shouted. “I'm good,” Fonz shouted back.
Scott is something of a new Bear. He tried a Polar Bear run a year ago, or was it two? He got as far as the Greenwich rest stop on the Merritt Parkway, declared us all crazy, and rode home.
This year Scott is on a new Harley Softail, equipped with electrics, and ready to ride. Although he still eschews rain riding.
We motored on, now a longish line of eleven.
At the Hutch Parkway we picked up Token, making us dozen bikes long.
That gets to be a lot of motorcycles to keep in line.
After picking up Token, we merged onto the Hutchinson Parkway in bits and pieces, but managed to re-form our line.
We held our own just fine until we hit the toll booths at the top of the West Side Highway in New York City.
That booth has the distinction of having gates, even in the EZ Pass lane. Captain mowed one of them down a few years back.
About half our EZ Passes would not activate the gates. Mine worked just fine.
With no shoulder to regroup, I rode down the right lane of the highway at about 10 miles per hour.
When I guesstimated I had most of our guys, I headed for the GW Bridge exit. There is a stop sign at the end of the exit, and I figured I could stop there and count heads. Which I did. And thank you so much to the New York driver who shouted encouragement and suggested I just keep going. Excuse me, but I have a right to stop at a STOP sign, even in New York City.
Back in a tight group we managed the bridge okay and headed toward the NJ Turnpike.
Now I am hoping Bob V remembered his role.
Sure enough, approaching the NJ Turnpike toll plaza, Bob pulls out next to us, zooms ahead, and runs right through the EZ Pass only speed lanes. Wha?
As I caught up to him, Bob just gave a shrug and dropped back into line.
Well, I figured he could sort it all out at Exit 9.
Meanwhile as we motored down the Jersey Turnpike in relatively light traffic, apparently Token became annoyed with my perfectly precise group leadership. I try to lead a group ride like I have a cruise control throttle, which I don't. I set a smooth and reasonable pace.
I find big gaps and make smooth lane changes and minimize the number of changes. I carefully pick the route sure to give us the least troubles. I judiciously apply my skills, always vigilant to the rear view mirrors, my only thought the comfort and safety of my fellow riders.
Apparently this was all too bucolic for Token. He got bored and came jetting up the passing lane. Abreast of my position he slowed for a moment and began gesturing. Only he used none of the pre-approved road captain hand gestures. It's not that he was giving nasty gestures. I just had absolutely no idea what he wanted to convey. As Russ said, “Even Token's hand gestures have an accent.”
After Token defected, we rode smoothly down to Exit 9 and left the Turnpike.
Past the toll plaza there really is no good spot to pull over what was now 11 bikes. And after the exit we must run a gauntlet of stop lights. This is where the lead bike really has to rely upon his sweep. With a long line it is impossible to see if every bike gets through on green. Little did I know John J. had abdicated.
John J. just sped off with the rest of us, leaving poor Bobby V. at the toll plaza. For all we know Bob could have been in handcuffs for his earlier EZ Pass Only violation. We never saw him again.
John J. should have held back and led the straggler to our destination. He would make a lousy cowboy.
John J. did leave a voice mail for Bob V. But it went unanswered and we never saw Bob again.
Fortunately, Captain heard from Bob V. later that night. After getting lost, Bob decided to turn around and head back home, alone, missing lunch.
Despite his shabby treatment, Bob said he may try to ride with us again. I'll bet he puts the destination into his GPS this time!
And despite his malfeasance, John J. will be welcome to join us again, because, after all, who among us has never made a mistake?
Likely John J. and I will both choose the middle of the pack on this Sunday's ride. We'll let someone else take the heat and see what happens. “How is it you can see the mote in my eye and not the log in your own?”
By: Chris Loynd
Indian Summer! Are there any two descriptive words more delicious to the psyche?
Well, thinking upon it, perhaps there are a few others: winning ticket, tax refund, motel sex.
It was a gorgeous Indian Summer weekend. Every convertible owner dropped his top. I saw a beautiful Morgan tooling along with a spry older couple. Joggers reverted to shorts. Folks in their shirtsleeves were out in their yards raking leaves. Motorcycles appeared like mushrooms after a summer rain.
It was a wonderful day to ride, almost too warm for Polar Bear motorcycles. Likely I could have done with one less layer. I plugged in my electric jacket and gloves, but barely employed them. And when we got stuck in stop-and-go traffic on Route 18 north headed home, I cooked. It felt great.
I do not choose to ride my motorcycle in winter because I like being cold. I much prefer riding across Arizona mesas in streaming sun wearing my mesh jacket. I ride in winter because I cannot imagine putting my motorcycle away for three months. I would love it if polar bear season was like this every weekend. Ah, but fate landed me in Stratford, not Savannah.
Warm weather means big turnouts. We drew a crowd that eventually swelled to 12 bikes.
At the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, at a very reasonable morning hour of 9:30, owing to the short distance, Captain and your blogger had a discussion about breaking into two groups.
Riding in one large group can have some special challenges. Ten or more motorcycles, riding in staggered formation, gets to be a very long line. Leading such is like managing a train running through multi-lane interstates. Lane changing must be kept to an absolute minimum.
Still the Captain convinced me to keep together in one group with this statement, “These guys are all good riders. They know what to do.”
John J. was offered the lead, cajoled may be more like it. He whiffed. So I stepped up to the challenge. John J. instead fell in as the last bike, the “sweep” position.
Isn't it amazing how small, seemingly innocuous, decisions can have major consequences, unforeseen?
“We don't need enough lifeboats for every passenger; Titanic is unsinkable.” “We can get the Donner wagons over the mountains before the really heavy snows come.” “Read my lips, no new taxes.”
We left Stratford with a manageable eight bikes. Even with that many, it is nearly impossible for the lead bike to see the sweep, the sweep being just too far back. So we rely upon some procedures to manage the ride so it is fun and safe and successful for all.
Each rider knows his place in a safe, staggered, formation. It is important that the group remain tight to prevent the incursion of cars. Each rider holds his lane position.
There are special duties for the lead and sweep riders.
The lead has to find very big holes in traffic before signaling for a lane change. He has to allow for merging on ramps; tolls can be a real challenge.
The sweep watches for what the lead can't see. He picks up stragglers and clears for lane changes.
Changing lanes with a big group of bikes can be done safely and smoothly, if the riders are disciplined. The lead signals a lane change but does not move. All the other bikes pass the signal back to the sweep, but do NOT move. When traffic is clear the sweep moves over. Now the line of bikes controls two lanes, the current and future lanes.
Any cars stuck next to the bikes in the target lane will move up and out of the way. The sweep holds the lane, preventing any other cars from entering. When the lane is clear the lead moves over, all the other bikes following.
When done properly it is a marvel to see.
Unfortunately, some guy in the middle typically just can't wait. He sees the signal to move and jumps over to the next lane, effectively trapping a car in the space the sweep had hoped to clear. Now the sweep, and any bikes ahead of him but behind the trapped car, must make a dash around to get in front of the trapped car and back in line.
I digress, dear blog reader, but only slightly.
Sunday we had a new rider, Bob V., self-admitted Polar Cub, still Bob is an experienced rider and road captain and knows the drill.
Bob does not have EZ Pass and clearly announced that ahead of time.
So the way that works is as we approach a toll, the rider without EZ Pass zooms ahead a bit, headed for the cash lane. Meanwhile the leader slows the rest of the group approaching the EZ Pass lanes. If the leader figures the differential correctly, the rider paying cash is ready to rejoin the line just as the Pass riders exit the tolls.
Sounds good, right?
We reviewed the procedure with Bob\ and headed south.
We exited at the Darien rest stop to pick up three more riders: Jim, Fonz and Scott.
I planned to exit – instead of picking them up as we rode by like we usually do – because Fonz needed some adaptive connectors I had for an electric vest he was going to borrow from Pogy. So far Fonz has been trying to get by with a battery powered vest for warmth, as in running off of a 9-volt in his pocket, instead of wired to his motorcycle's electrical system.
No really. Batteries. It works fine when Fonz is standing still. But at speed it is probably good so long as the ambient temperature is above 70 degrees.
Only Fonz did not borrow the vest, forgot about the connectors, and expected us to just blow by on the Interstate side. He had his other riders hyped to run down the on ramp to join our line of bikes. That explains the quizzical look Fonz gave me when I pulled to a stop next to him.
“Connectors?” I shouted. “I'm good,” Fonz shouted back.
Scott is something of a new Bear. He tried a Polar Bear run a year ago, or was it two? He got as far as the Greenwich rest stop on the Merritt Parkway, declared us all crazy, and rode home.
This year Scott is on a new Harley Softail, equipped with electrics, and ready to ride. Although he still eschews rain riding.
We motored on, now a longish line of eleven.
At the Hutch Parkway we picked up Token, making us dozen bikes long.
That gets to be a lot of motorcycles to keep in line.
After picking up Token, we merged onto the Hutchinson Parkway in bits and pieces, but managed to re-form our line.
We held our own just fine until we hit the toll booths at the top of the West Side Highway in New York City.
That booth has the distinction of having gates, even in the EZ Pass lane. Captain mowed one of them down a few years back.
About half our EZ Passes would not activate the gates. Mine worked just fine.
With no shoulder to regroup, I rode down the right lane of the highway at about 10 miles per hour.
When I guesstimated I had most of our guys, I headed for the GW Bridge exit. There is a stop sign at the end of the exit, and I figured I could stop there and count heads. Which I did. And thank you so much to the New York driver who shouted encouragement and suggested I just keep going. Excuse me, but I have a right to stop at a STOP sign, even in New York City.
Back in a tight group we managed the bridge okay and headed toward the NJ Turnpike.
Now I am hoping Bob V remembered his role.
Sure enough, approaching the NJ Turnpike toll plaza, Bob pulls out next to us, zooms ahead, and runs right through the EZ Pass only speed lanes. Wha?
As I caught up to him, Bob just gave a shrug and dropped back into line.
Well, I figured he could sort it all out at Exit 9.
Meanwhile as we motored down the Jersey Turnpike in relatively light traffic, apparently Token became annoyed with my perfectly precise group leadership. I try to lead a group ride like I have a cruise control throttle, which I don't. I set a smooth and reasonable pace.
I find big gaps and make smooth lane changes and minimize the number of changes. I carefully pick the route sure to give us the least troubles. I judiciously apply my skills, always vigilant to the rear view mirrors, my only thought the comfort and safety of my fellow riders.
Apparently this was all too bucolic for Token. He got bored and came jetting up the passing lane. Abreast of my position he slowed for a moment and began gesturing. Only he used none of the pre-approved road captain hand gestures. It's not that he was giving nasty gestures. I just had absolutely no idea what he wanted to convey. As Russ said, “Even Token's hand gestures have an accent.”
After Token defected, we rode smoothly down to Exit 9 and left the Turnpike.
Past the toll plaza there really is no good spot to pull over what was now 11 bikes. And after the exit we must run a gauntlet of stop lights. This is where the lead bike really has to rely upon his sweep. With a long line it is impossible to see if every bike gets through on green. Little did I know John J. had abdicated.
John J. just sped off with the rest of us, leaving poor Bobby V. at the toll plaza. For all we know Bob could have been in handcuffs for his earlier EZ Pass Only violation. We never saw him again.
John J. should have held back and led the straggler to our destination. He would make a lousy cowboy.
John J. did leave a voice mail for Bob V. But it went unanswered and we never saw Bob again.
Fortunately, Captain heard from Bob V. later that night. After getting lost, Bob decided to turn around and head back home, alone, missing lunch.
Despite his shabby treatment, Bob said he may try to ride with us again. I'll bet he puts the destination into his GPS this time!
And despite his malfeasance, John J. will be welcome to join us again, because, after all, who among us has never made a mistake?
Likely John J. and I will both choose the middle of the pack on this Sunday's ride. We'll let someone else take the heat and see what happens. “How is it you can see the mote in my eye and not the log in your own?”
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Polar Bear Lewes, Del., November 7, 2010
Lewes, Del., November 7, 2010
Part of the fun of Polar Bear riding is riding with friends. It is also one of the challenges. Our different riding habits and personalities make good blog fodder.
Russ, Carl and I rode down together on Saturday, a day early for our Sunday Polar Bear run to the club's self-acclaimed “South Pole” in Lewes, Del. (If you're a local, that's pronounced “lose,” not “Lewis.”)
Russ' brother lives on a farm in southern New Jersey. My folks live in Wilmington, Del. We both exited the turnpike at number two.
I was headed to my folks' home to do some chores for Mom, visit with Dad and play with Heidi their Schnauzerdoodle. Mom rewards me with scrapple breakfast. Russ and Carl I think skipped the chores, but got scrapple breakfast all the same. Carl even texted photo proof to me Sunday morning.
Scrapple is a Pennsylvania Dutch thing. My folks are from Lancaster County. I was actually born in Lancaster and lived in Intercourse for five years before we moved just over the line to Delaware. That State paid school teachers better and therefore my father's prospects (and not inconsequentially my own) improved.
Scrapple is traditionally made with all the parts of a pig that are not good enough to go into sausage. You mix what's left of the hog with oatmeal and spices and press it into blocks. Later you slice the blocks and fry it, hot, on both sides. It may be what some folks would call an “acquired” taste. But I grew up on the stuff.
My Grandfather Loynd was once a butcher and explained it this way, “You butcher the hog and cut out all the fine cuts, pork chops, loin, and such, plus the bacon. Then all the little trimmings and bits that are any good go into sausage. Next you collect up everything else and that makes scrapple. Then you sweep the floor and that makes puddin'.”
Russ and his brothers go in together to raise some pigs on the Jersey farm. They like scrapple so much they grind up the whole hog for it. That makes some mighty fine scrapple; I have had the pleasure of sampling such.
I once went through scrapple withdrawal when I lived in Milwaukee. I got so desperate I made some myself. I used pork tenderloin and it made some of the best scrapple I ever tasted. But it was a lot of work with the food processor.
Standing at the Stratford Dunkin' Saturday, visions of scrapple dancing in our heads, Russ and I began the parlay as to how we should organize our group ride. Even for just three riders it can be delicate negotiations. For my opening play I graciously conceded the lead to Russ.
But Russ countered, saying he wanted to sweep because the metal rods in his hand sometimes caused unexpected throttle surging and he would go shooting up in speed. “Uh, isn't that all the more reason to put you up front?” I asked. “I mean if you're going to suddenly go shooting up through the bikes.”
But what Russ meant is that it is easier for him if someone else sets the pace so he can follow.
I shouted over to Carl, “You okay with the rocking chair?” Carl responded, “Sofa!” Okay. We're off.
We had a nice ride down in reasonably light traffic. We made one comfort stop just after the turnpike un-split itself. Looking at the line at the pumps we decided to stretch our tanks to Exit 2.
At our comfort stop I suggested we could meet up again Sunday morning to resume our ride to Lewes. I had gone on Google Earth and found a Dunkin' Donuts on Route 13 just below I-295. Russ and Carl would be approaching from the east, I from the west. It seemed an easy place to reconvene.
The address was 1001 North DuPont Highway.
Perhaps it is a foible of my profession. I am often guilty of providing too much information. Attempting to ensure absolutely clear communication, I confuse my listeners by explaining something in greater and greater illustrative detail.
In that spirit, I cautioned the guys that our meeting place was on the southbound side of North DuPont Highway. Carl punched 1001 SOUTH DuPont Highway into his GPS Saturday night. And I never saw them again until Lewes.
Now Carl and Russ both passed lie detector tests, administered by the Delaware State Police, swearing that your faithful blogger told them the address was SOUTH DuPont highway. I don't think so even today. I even gave Carl a written note, which he acknowledged receiving. Still, I do have to admit I am reaching an age where I hear one thought in my head and somehow enunciate another, entirely different thought, through my mouth.
I described at length, in pictorial detail, with elaborate hand gestures, how they would come over the Delaware Memorial Bridge, exit onto 295, then turn south onto 13, and finally see the Dunkin' on their right. I described the pink and orange logo they would see, on the sign, at the facility, on Route 13, southbound.
The final result says something about the faith my fellow riders have in me. Russ and Carl blindly let their GPS take them down a dead end dirt road in the middle of the worst part of New Castle, Del., to a small church, on South DuPont Highway before they called me on the phone to express their confusion. Fortunately Russ says he was “saved” right there in the dirt parking lot as Carl and I sorted out the mishap via cell phone.
I took Carl's call standing on the berm in front of the Dunkin' overlooking Route 13, watching the rest of our guys blow by, all the way down from Connecticut, they having departed early Sunday morning.
Carl and I tried to coordinate a second meeting place. I proposed just after the toll booths after they cross the C&D canal. I even babbled on about what the bridge looked like, what a canal was, where we could meet after the tolls.
I stood on the shoulder of the road past the bridge tolls for 20 minutes. Neither Russ nor Carl appeared. Neither phone call nor text was received by me. I finally sent Carl a text to tell him I would see them in Lewes; his voice mail was accepting no inbound messages.
Turns out, Carl and Russ also saw our guys go by and decided to chase after them, and without so much as a “by your leave” to me.
When I finally arrived at Lewes, after waiting for Russ and Carl to never show, twice, I got all the excoriation about being late. Grumpy even took the group photo without me. Talk about insult on injury!
So this is the second time in as many rides my “pals” have left me behind and out. Maybe they're trying to tell me something?
I mean our guys were picking up random riders at rest stops on the way down. And they couldn't grab me on the way? They picked up another foreigner, Jim, from New York, when they pulled in for gas on the turnpike.
New Jersey Matt may have started something here with non-Connecticut, Connecticut Polar Bears. Who knows? Maybe someday in the future there will be a Connecticut location on the Polar Bear calendar.
Riding alone in my thoughts, I drifted back a few years in my mind. It felt good to me to be back on the Delmarva peninsula. (Delmarva stands for Delaware, Maryland and Virginia.)
My first job after graduating from college was here. I was running all over downstate Delaware, the Eastern Shore of Maryland and the Virginia peninsula writing stories for “The Delmarva Farmer” weekly newspaper.
Our copy deadline was Sunday at noon. I used to party Friday and Saturday nights with some girls I knew in high school who rented a house over in Sea Isle City, on the Jersey Shore. (“Jacks” had a soft ice cream machine at every corner of their Tiki bar that dispensed pina coladas.) Then early Sunday morning I would haul my butt onto the first Cape May to Lewes ferry, drive across Delaware, then across the Eastern Shore of Maryland to arrive bleary eyed, copy in hand, at the newspaper offices.
I would stay over in Easton Sunday night because our print deadline was noon Monday. We put the paper together in a mad frenzy Monday morning. These were pre-computer days with waxed galleys and literal cut and paste.
There was this typesetter girl on the night shift. She was kinda quiet and cute. Pretty, not in the hot babe way that young men seek, but attractive and trim. I noticed her. However the whole typesetting department was young girls. This was this one proofreader too. She was a hot babe type. Couldn't spell and was a critic of sentence structure. But who could get mad at her randomly rewriting my copy with a body like that? So I was too distracted to much notice Cynthia Trever.
It took a bit more effort on both our parts for me to discover that behind that quiet front of hers was a sharp wit and smart mind and a hidden feisty nature. She was nervous in some things, sure in others. She was independent. She asked for nothing and offered everything.
I danced with her at the company Christmas party, right about this time of year in 1979. But I didn't remember her. I danced with a lot of girls from work that night. The date I brought to the party didn't dance.
A week later at our more informal, back-shop, holiday party I was sitting on a concrete step to the press room, eating some oysters, chatting with my boss. That typesetter girl came up and said, “So Chris, when are you taking me dancing again?” Not missing a beat I said, "How about next Saturday?" We made the date.
After she left, my boss asked, “This happen to you often?” “Oh, all the time,” I replied.
Cynthia Trever and I ended up getting married after we got to know each other a lot better, sometimes over scrapple sandwiches at the H&G restaurant in Easton, on Route 50, northbound side.
Part of the fun of Polar Bear riding is riding with friends. It is also one of the challenges. Our different riding habits and personalities make good blog fodder.
Russ, Carl and I rode down together on Saturday, a day early for our Sunday Polar Bear run to the club's self-acclaimed “South Pole” in Lewes, Del. (If you're a local, that's pronounced “lose,” not “Lewis.”)
Russ' brother lives on a farm in southern New Jersey. My folks live in Wilmington, Del. We both exited the turnpike at number two.
I was headed to my folks' home to do some chores for Mom, visit with Dad and play with Heidi their Schnauzerdoodle. Mom rewards me with scrapple breakfast. Russ and Carl I think skipped the chores, but got scrapple breakfast all the same. Carl even texted photo proof to me Sunday morning.
Scrapple is a Pennsylvania Dutch thing. My folks are from Lancaster County. I was actually born in Lancaster and lived in Intercourse for five years before we moved just over the line to Delaware. That State paid school teachers better and therefore my father's prospects (and not inconsequentially my own) improved.
Scrapple is traditionally made with all the parts of a pig that are not good enough to go into sausage. You mix what's left of the hog with oatmeal and spices and press it into blocks. Later you slice the blocks and fry it, hot, on both sides. It may be what some folks would call an “acquired” taste. But I grew up on the stuff.
My Grandfather Loynd was once a butcher and explained it this way, “You butcher the hog and cut out all the fine cuts, pork chops, loin, and such, plus the bacon. Then all the little trimmings and bits that are any good go into sausage. Next you collect up everything else and that makes scrapple. Then you sweep the floor and that makes puddin'.”
Russ and his brothers go in together to raise some pigs on the Jersey farm. They like scrapple so much they grind up the whole hog for it. That makes some mighty fine scrapple; I have had the pleasure of sampling such.
I once went through scrapple withdrawal when I lived in Milwaukee. I got so desperate I made some myself. I used pork tenderloin and it made some of the best scrapple I ever tasted. But it was a lot of work with the food processor.
Standing at the Stratford Dunkin' Saturday, visions of scrapple dancing in our heads, Russ and I began the parlay as to how we should organize our group ride. Even for just three riders it can be delicate negotiations. For my opening play I graciously conceded the lead to Russ.
But Russ countered, saying he wanted to sweep because the metal rods in his hand sometimes caused unexpected throttle surging and he would go shooting up in speed. “Uh, isn't that all the more reason to put you up front?” I asked. “I mean if you're going to suddenly go shooting up through the bikes.”
But what Russ meant is that it is easier for him if someone else sets the pace so he can follow.
I shouted over to Carl, “You okay with the rocking chair?” Carl responded, “Sofa!” Okay. We're off.
We had a nice ride down in reasonably light traffic. We made one comfort stop just after the turnpike un-split itself. Looking at the line at the pumps we decided to stretch our tanks to Exit 2.
At our comfort stop I suggested we could meet up again Sunday morning to resume our ride to Lewes. I had gone on Google Earth and found a Dunkin' Donuts on Route 13 just below I-295. Russ and Carl would be approaching from the east, I from the west. It seemed an easy place to reconvene.
The address was 1001 North DuPont Highway.
Perhaps it is a foible of my profession. I am often guilty of providing too much information. Attempting to ensure absolutely clear communication, I confuse my listeners by explaining something in greater and greater illustrative detail.
In that spirit, I cautioned the guys that our meeting place was on the southbound side of North DuPont Highway. Carl punched 1001 SOUTH DuPont Highway into his GPS Saturday night. And I never saw them again until Lewes.
Now Carl and Russ both passed lie detector tests, administered by the Delaware State Police, swearing that your faithful blogger told them the address was SOUTH DuPont highway. I don't think so even today. I even gave Carl a written note, which he acknowledged receiving. Still, I do have to admit I am reaching an age where I hear one thought in my head and somehow enunciate another, entirely different thought, through my mouth.
I described at length, in pictorial detail, with elaborate hand gestures, how they would come over the Delaware Memorial Bridge, exit onto 295, then turn south onto 13, and finally see the Dunkin' on their right. I described the pink and orange logo they would see, on the sign, at the facility, on Route 13, southbound.
The final result says something about the faith my fellow riders have in me. Russ and Carl blindly let their GPS take them down a dead end dirt road in the middle of the worst part of New Castle, Del., to a small church, on South DuPont Highway before they called me on the phone to express their confusion. Fortunately Russ says he was “saved” right there in the dirt parking lot as Carl and I sorted out the mishap via cell phone.
I took Carl's call standing on the berm in front of the Dunkin' overlooking Route 13, watching the rest of our guys blow by, all the way down from Connecticut, they having departed early Sunday morning.
Carl and I tried to coordinate a second meeting place. I proposed just after the toll booths after they cross the C&D canal. I even babbled on about what the bridge looked like, what a canal was, where we could meet after the tolls.
I stood on the shoulder of the road past the bridge tolls for 20 minutes. Neither Russ nor Carl appeared. Neither phone call nor text was received by me. I finally sent Carl a text to tell him I would see them in Lewes; his voice mail was accepting no inbound messages.
Turns out, Carl and Russ also saw our guys go by and decided to chase after them, and without so much as a “by your leave” to me.
When I finally arrived at Lewes, after waiting for Russ and Carl to never show, twice, I got all the excoriation about being late. Grumpy even took the group photo without me. Talk about insult on injury!
So this is the second time in as many rides my “pals” have left me behind and out. Maybe they're trying to tell me something?
I mean our guys were picking up random riders at rest stops on the way down. And they couldn't grab me on the way? They picked up another foreigner, Jim, from New York, when they pulled in for gas on the turnpike.
New Jersey Matt may have started something here with non-Connecticut, Connecticut Polar Bears. Who knows? Maybe someday in the future there will be a Connecticut location on the Polar Bear calendar.
Riding alone in my thoughts, I drifted back a few years in my mind. It felt good to me to be back on the Delmarva peninsula. (Delmarva stands for Delaware, Maryland and Virginia.)
My first job after graduating from college was here. I was running all over downstate Delaware, the Eastern Shore of Maryland and the Virginia peninsula writing stories for “The Delmarva Farmer” weekly newspaper.
Our copy deadline was Sunday at noon. I used to party Friday and Saturday nights with some girls I knew in high school who rented a house over in Sea Isle City, on the Jersey Shore. (“Jacks” had a soft ice cream machine at every corner of their Tiki bar that dispensed pina coladas.) Then early Sunday morning I would haul my butt onto the first Cape May to Lewes ferry, drive across Delaware, then across the Eastern Shore of Maryland to arrive bleary eyed, copy in hand, at the newspaper offices.
I would stay over in Easton Sunday night because our print deadline was noon Monday. We put the paper together in a mad frenzy Monday morning. These were pre-computer days with waxed galleys and literal cut and paste.
There was this typesetter girl on the night shift. She was kinda quiet and cute. Pretty, not in the hot babe way that young men seek, but attractive and trim. I noticed her. However the whole typesetting department was young girls. This was this one proofreader too. She was a hot babe type. Couldn't spell and was a critic of sentence structure. But who could get mad at her randomly rewriting my copy with a body like that? So I was too distracted to much notice Cynthia Trever.
It took a bit more effort on both our parts for me to discover that behind that quiet front of hers was a sharp wit and smart mind and a hidden feisty nature. She was nervous in some things, sure in others. She was independent. She asked for nothing and offered everything.
I danced with her at the company Christmas party, right about this time of year in 1979. But I didn't remember her. I danced with a lot of girls from work that night. The date I brought to the party didn't dance.
A week later at our more informal, back-shop, holiday party I was sitting on a concrete step to the press room, eating some oysters, chatting with my boss. That typesetter girl came up and said, “So Chris, when are you taking me dancing again?” Not missing a beat I said, "How about next Saturday?" We made the date.
After she left, my boss asked, “This happen to you often?” “Oh, all the time,” I replied.
Cynthia Trever and I ended up getting married after we got to know each other a lot better, sometimes over scrapple sandwiches at the H&G restaurant in Easton, on Route 50, northbound side.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Polar Bear Cape May, Oct. 31, 2010
Cape May, October 31
40's to start, 60's midday, back to 40's
Eight years ago I read a story in my American Motorcyclist Association magazine about a club that rode together only in winter. New to motorcycling, I deemed to give it a try. I liked it. I did that first ride alone, but then let a few friends in on it. They brought more friends. And I am amazed at how it evolved. (You can read the story of my first ride on my web site blog: http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_story.htm.)
I brought the Polar Bear club to Connecticut. Introduced it here. Brought all these guys along. And last Sunday those same bastards left me behind at a rest stop on the Garden State Parkway because I couldn't get my gloves on fast enough. Ingrates all!
Still, I would not change these pals for the world. And every season we pick up a few new maniacs. You are welcome to join us.
This year 10 of us rode to Cape May from Connecticut on the season opener, 450 miles round trip from Stratford. We started and finished in the dark. We rode, laughed, waited in line, lunched and teased each other.
We have little in common except motorcycles. Some of us are liberals. Others are conservatives. Others (Captain) are chicken little. One even has dual citizenship and talks funny.
We see more of each other in winter than summer.
Winter riding inspires ridiculous behavior.
Grumpy is going to double up on night shift, 24 straight weeks, so he can make more Polar Bear rides. Captain showed up Sunday with four sets of blood donation points plus a corn boil. Pogy made tee shirts for everyone, on his own dime, doling out the largess at our first rest stop. Big Matt rode up to Connecticut from New Jersey, turning right around to then join us on the ride back south. (It's not the first time Matt has done this.) Jim missed our departure time e-mail and so rode down to Cape May on his own, meeting us there for the ride back home.
Russ is on a new bike this season, his third in as many years. His Harley Wide Glide was good for quite a few years. The dresser he didn't like so much but fortunately an inattentive driver took it off his hands. She almost took his hand too, but Russ kept it, with the help of a few metal rods. Now he's on a Heritage Softail, similar to my bike, but without the spiffy springer front end.
Russ saw my bike in the service bay at Brothers Harley-Davidson. Being a superbly nosy guy, he asked Service Manager Marcel what I was having done. Marcel answered “rocker berings” at which point Russ called (I presume) every HOG and Polar Bear club member that may have even remote knowledge of me and my bike and told them I was finally in for an engine rebuild. I have 130,000 miles on the original mill.
I arrived in Cape May to a barrage of questions and genuine (I think) concern for my bike. Rocker bearings? Engine job? What?
At first I figured Russ was just being Russ, starting rumors, telling stories, embellishing. Then it occurred to me. No guys, the bearings replaced on my bike last week were in the rocker arms of my springer front end.
By the way, the mechanics at Brothers tell me my former dealership should have caught them a lot sooner. One was just flopping around in its race. I have to admit the bike rides a lot tighter now. I took the ol' gal on a 7,500 mile ride in August. You can see my photos on Flicker here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/24638972@N03/sets/72157624752838373/.
Pogy joined us officially this year. He caught up with the group mid-season last year and liked it. I had talked to him for years about riding with us. Hey Pogy, try it, you'll like it! Now he is registered as a Flight B bear. A few more rides and he will earn the coveted Polar Bear patch.
By the way, Grumpy, remember Pogy can't get the CT patch until he first earns his rides and New Jersey patch. I forgot to mention that as he was asking about obtaining a Connecticut patch last Sunday. You can give out all the cool tee shirts you want, Pog, but you still gotta do the rides!
Jim showed up too, riding down on his own as described previously. He also signed up for the first time this year. So we've added two new Connecticut bears to the official roster.
Jim also received a typical Connecticut Polar Bear hazing. We ran him out of gas on the ride home. “Oh the first rest stop is just a few miles,” Grumpy said. Fortunately Jim was able to bounce the last ounce out of his tank to make the few hundred yards to the station, sputtering all the way.
We saw official Grand Tour photographer Walter Kern outside the VFW and I proudly showed him my new polar bear rider pinup girl on my rear fender. At which point my guys started yelling about the tattoo. Wearing all long sleeves, I had to strip off my shirts to show it. Walter took a picture for the club site.
We lost a couple riders on this trip due to health. Carl showed up at our Stratford start but dropped out a few exits later because he wasn't feeling up to the ride. Token rode with Bart down to their pickup point at the Hutch and 287, but turned around back to home before we arrived. It says something about both fellows' desire to ride that they tried. After next week's ride to Lewes, Del., the distances are shorter. Hopefully they both feel better in a week or two.
And so we embark with eager anticipation of a good season of winter riding. Hopefully we can avoid any snow or ice storms requiring a long ride in Captain's hairmobile.
Thank you to the New Jersey organizers for allowing us to join their club. It truly is more a New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware endeavor. Yet they welcome us with open arms.
40's to start, 60's midday, back to 40's
Eight years ago I read a story in my American Motorcyclist Association magazine about a club that rode together only in winter. New to motorcycling, I deemed to give it a try. I liked it. I did that first ride alone, but then let a few friends in on it. They brought more friends. And I am amazed at how it evolved. (You can read the story of my first ride on my web site blog: http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_story.htm.)
I brought the Polar Bear club to Connecticut. Introduced it here. Brought all these guys along. And last Sunday those same bastards left me behind at a rest stop on the Garden State Parkway because I couldn't get my gloves on fast enough. Ingrates all!
Still, I would not change these pals for the world. And every season we pick up a few new maniacs. You are welcome to join us.
This year 10 of us rode to Cape May from Connecticut on the season opener, 450 miles round trip from Stratford. We started and finished in the dark. We rode, laughed, waited in line, lunched and teased each other.
We have little in common except motorcycles. Some of us are liberals. Others are conservatives. Others (Captain) are chicken little. One even has dual citizenship and talks funny.
We see more of each other in winter than summer.
Winter riding inspires ridiculous behavior.
Grumpy is going to double up on night shift, 24 straight weeks, so he can make more Polar Bear rides. Captain showed up Sunday with four sets of blood donation points plus a corn boil. Pogy made tee shirts for everyone, on his own dime, doling out the largess at our first rest stop. Big Matt rode up to Connecticut from New Jersey, turning right around to then join us on the ride back south. (It's not the first time Matt has done this.) Jim missed our departure time e-mail and so rode down to Cape May on his own, meeting us there for the ride back home.
Russ is on a new bike this season, his third in as many years. His Harley Wide Glide was good for quite a few years. The dresser he didn't like so much but fortunately an inattentive driver took it off his hands. She almost took his hand too, but Russ kept it, with the help of a few metal rods. Now he's on a Heritage Softail, similar to my bike, but without the spiffy springer front end.
Russ saw my bike in the service bay at Brothers Harley-Davidson. Being a superbly nosy guy, he asked Service Manager Marcel what I was having done. Marcel answered “rocker berings” at which point Russ called (I presume) every HOG and Polar Bear club member that may have even remote knowledge of me and my bike and told them I was finally in for an engine rebuild. I have 130,000 miles on the original mill.
I arrived in Cape May to a barrage of questions and genuine (I think) concern for my bike. Rocker bearings? Engine job? What?
At first I figured Russ was just being Russ, starting rumors, telling stories, embellishing. Then it occurred to me. No guys, the bearings replaced on my bike last week were in the rocker arms of my springer front end.
By the way, the mechanics at Brothers tell me my former dealership should have caught them a lot sooner. One was just flopping around in its race. I have to admit the bike rides a lot tighter now. I took the ol' gal on a 7,500 mile ride in August. You can see my photos on Flicker here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/24638972@N03/sets/72157624752838373/.
Pogy joined us officially this year. He caught up with the group mid-season last year and liked it. I had talked to him for years about riding with us. Hey Pogy, try it, you'll like it! Now he is registered as a Flight B bear. A few more rides and he will earn the coveted Polar Bear patch.
By the way, Grumpy, remember Pogy can't get the CT patch until he first earns his rides and New Jersey patch. I forgot to mention that as he was asking about obtaining a Connecticut patch last Sunday. You can give out all the cool tee shirts you want, Pog, but you still gotta do the rides!
Jim showed up too, riding down on his own as described previously. He also signed up for the first time this year. So we've added two new Connecticut bears to the official roster.
Jim also received a typical Connecticut Polar Bear hazing. We ran him out of gas on the ride home. “Oh the first rest stop is just a few miles,” Grumpy said. Fortunately Jim was able to bounce the last ounce out of his tank to make the few hundred yards to the station, sputtering all the way.
We saw official Grand Tour photographer Walter Kern outside the VFW and I proudly showed him my new polar bear rider pinup girl on my rear fender. At which point my guys started yelling about the tattoo. Wearing all long sleeves, I had to strip off my shirts to show it. Walter took a picture for the club site.
We lost a couple riders on this trip due to health. Carl showed up at our Stratford start but dropped out a few exits later because he wasn't feeling up to the ride. Token rode with Bart down to their pickup point at the Hutch and 287, but turned around back to home before we arrived. It says something about both fellows' desire to ride that they tried. After next week's ride to Lewes, Del., the distances are shorter. Hopefully they both feel better in a week or two.
And so we embark with eager anticipation of a good season of winter riding. Hopefully we can avoid any snow or ice storms requiring a long ride in Captain's hairmobile.
Thank you to the New Jersey organizers for allowing us to join their club. It truly is more a New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware endeavor. Yet they welcome us with open arms.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Sturgis and Beyond
Wednesday, August 18, Monument Valley
Woke to an incredible sunrise. I can't stop taking pictures.
Buffet breakfast at The View restaurant offered good food and more than delivered on the view.
Then I decided to hike the Wildcat Trail. Just 3.2 miles, it goes down to the valley floor and in between the two “mittens.” Like any great adventure it had a touch of fear, a moment of despair and a comforting redemption.
It is a fairly steep decent to the valley floor. Once down, the trail crosses gullies and follows washes around these giant and magnificent rock formations.
I felt relaxed and calm and took my time. But on the backside of the mittens are some Indian homes. Far off, I thought rather far off. Still one of the Indian's dogs did not think it far enough. He suddenly and menacingly popped up out of a gully and ran my ass off the trail. I kept backing away from him, talking calmly, all the while looking around my feet for a stick. I found a short one and grabbed it. The dog kept his distance but kept barking. A ways further I found a bigger stick, one that gave me a fighting chance if it came to that.
Now I walked more confidently, the dog seemed to lose confidence or maybe I was reaching the edge of his protective boundary. In any case after some tense moments he stood on a hill and watched me disappear over the next.
Once my heart stopped thumping, I reacquired the trail and settled back down into my pace. I kept the stick for a while, just in case.
Now my attention turned to the clouds, which were darkening rapidly. Wind was gusting through the gullies. I started looking for places to climb in case of flash floods. Unfortunately, I was now on the valley floor and high spots were sparse.
Still I figured my biggest danger was getting wet, until I saw my first lightning bolt, that is.
I picked up the pace a bit and felt a lot better when I rounded the mitten and could see my tent, way off, and way up, but I knew exactly where I stood.
These big horizons here in the West offer the opportunity of watching a storm descend upon you. (Back east, it just rains. There are too many trees or hills to see it coming.) I looked to the lightning, then to my camp, and figured that both were fairly far away, but the storm looked farther. Unfortunately, the ever bigger wind gusts had me wondering if that storm wasn't traveling a whole lot faster than I was.
Picking up the pace any more was not an option, because I was on the final part of the trail and it is all up.
Rain drops, not many, began falling on me as I hiked the final tenth mile. I ducked under my rain fly content that I had made it. Then the wind really kicked up, coming it seemed from all directions. I hunkered down in my tent to wait out the storm. It was more wind and bang than rain. I weathered it just fine.
Woke to an incredible sunrise. I can't stop taking pictures.
Buffet breakfast at The View restaurant offered good food and more than delivered on the view.
Then I decided to hike the Wildcat Trail. Just 3.2 miles, it goes down to the valley floor and in between the two “mittens.” Like any great adventure it had a touch of fear, a moment of despair and a comforting redemption.
It is a fairly steep decent to the valley floor. Once down, the trail crosses gullies and follows washes around these giant and magnificent rock formations.
I felt relaxed and calm and took my time. But on the backside of the mittens are some Indian homes. Far off, I thought rather far off. Still one of the Indian's dogs did not think it far enough. He suddenly and menacingly popped up out of a gully and ran my ass off the trail. I kept backing away from him, talking calmly, all the while looking around my feet for a stick. I found a short one and grabbed it. The dog kept his distance but kept barking. A ways further I found a bigger stick, one that gave me a fighting chance if it came to that.
Now I walked more confidently, the dog seemed to lose confidence or maybe I was reaching the edge of his protective boundary. In any case after some tense moments he stood on a hill and watched me disappear over the next.
Once my heart stopped thumping, I reacquired the trail and settled back down into my pace. I kept the stick for a while, just in case.
Now my attention turned to the clouds, which were darkening rapidly. Wind was gusting through the gullies. I started looking for places to climb in case of flash floods. Unfortunately, I was now on the valley floor and high spots were sparse.
Still I figured my biggest danger was getting wet, until I saw my first lightning bolt, that is.
I picked up the pace a bit and felt a lot better when I rounded the mitten and could see my tent, way off, and way up, but I knew exactly where I stood.
These big horizons here in the West offer the opportunity of watching a storm descend upon you. (Back east, it just rains. There are too many trees or hills to see it coming.) I looked to the lightning, then to my camp, and figured that both were fairly far away, but the storm looked farther. Unfortunately, the ever bigger wind gusts had me wondering if that storm wasn't traveling a whole lot faster than I was.
Picking up the pace any more was not an option, because I was on the final part of the trail and it is all up.
Rain drops, not many, began falling on me as I hiked the final tenth mile. I ducked under my rain fly content that I had made it. Then the wind really kicked up, coming it seemed from all directions. I hunkered down in my tent to wait out the storm. It was more wind and bang than rain. I weathered it just fine.
California Day Six
California: Day Six
Monday, February 22, 2010
Today the sun shone again in Los Angeles. While I have not been lucky with temperature, I have been mostly lucky with rain, the bulk of it falling while I slept. With today's sun came that additional 10 degrees I had been missing since Day One. As the guy at Eagle Rider (the motorcycle rental company) said when I complained about the cold, well it is February. This is our winter. I mentioned Venice Beach and he said, “Yeah, the babes all wear sweatshirts and hoodies; that's their winter coat.”
My last vacation day was a soft day. I walked up to the Denny's and posted the February 14 Polar Bear blog. I got a delicious meal at a cost approximately one-tenth of the breakfast options here at the hotel.
I figured to turn the bike in by 4 p.m. This evening my work starts with a 6 pm screening and meeting and another 7 pm meeting. Film distributors will pitch their movies.
I also wanted to change my hotel room. So despite getting raked over the coals to be here at the same hotel as the convention, which included twenty-five bucks for overnight parking for the bike, I still had to pack my bags yet again, if only to ride the elevator down and back up again.
With my leisurely breakfast and then switching rooms, I figured to check out the L.A. Zoo and get a photo of the Hollywood sign.
My route there was 90 percent freeway. So I also figured to leave and return before rush hour. It is Monday.
Traffic was moderately heavy all the same. These freeways twist and merge with dual lane entrances and exits. Each of these big merges leads to a slowdown. They do severe rubber banding here, speeds from 65 mph to 0 with very little warning.
Is lane sharing an awesome concept or what? I finally got my chance. Cars actually move over to let you through. When traffic slowed, or stopped or crawled, I slid the bike from one lane to the next, hopscotching my way along through the much slower lines of cars. Too bad we don't have the tradition back east. Somehow I think our drivers are just too nasty to let it work.
Unfortunately, California is also populated with distracted drivers. It seems the great majority are on cell phones all the time. They drive with their windshields and rear view mirrors. I don't recall seeing a single driver swivel his head to check blind spots.
Even so I had great fun on the freeways.
The L.A. Zoo was fair at best. But they had meerkats and it was fascinating to see the interest people take in these active little animals. The exhibit had one high rock. That generated never ending activity as the meerkats took turns keeping lookout up on the high rock. They stood on their hind legs in that cute way they do. Sometimes three were up, sometimes only one. What was cool was that every few minutes they would switch positions. They were the most active animals I saw in the whole zoo.
Most of the rest of the animals were just laying in a corner somewhere, or in the case of the single hippo and single rhino, just standing stock still.
It was warm enough in the sun as I walked around the zoo that I actually sprang for a snow cone.
Exiting the zoo I worked my way around to the other side of Griffin Park to ride up the hill to the observatory. And there, up on top, facing away from the observatory was the famous Hollywood sign. I took a few photos, but in the camera lens it is much farther away than in person.
More freeway fun and I was at Eagle Rider at 4 pm, right on time. They checked-in the bike and gave me a ride to the hotel.
Left for next year is the southern end of the PCH and maybe the Hollywood walk of fame and Rodeo Drive, although they are not so much my thing. Across from the zoo is the Will Rogers museum of western history. That I would like to see. It is closed on Mondays. San Diego will have to wait.
If I am back at the IMAX convention next February, I may need to give it another try. I would especially like to ride that upper PCH along the cliffs through Big Sur with another 10 degrees of warmth. But it is winter in California. You have to stay out of the mountains. After we got rain last night, they had snow up in Big Bear, just a short ride to the east of here.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Today the sun shone again in Los Angeles. While I have not been lucky with temperature, I have been mostly lucky with rain, the bulk of it falling while I slept. With today's sun came that additional 10 degrees I had been missing since Day One. As the guy at Eagle Rider (the motorcycle rental company) said when I complained about the cold, well it is February. This is our winter. I mentioned Venice Beach and he said, “Yeah, the babes all wear sweatshirts and hoodies; that's their winter coat.”
My last vacation day was a soft day. I walked up to the Denny's and posted the February 14 Polar Bear blog. I got a delicious meal at a cost approximately one-tenth of the breakfast options here at the hotel.
I figured to turn the bike in by 4 p.m. This evening my work starts with a 6 pm screening and meeting and another 7 pm meeting. Film distributors will pitch their movies.
I also wanted to change my hotel room. So despite getting raked over the coals to be here at the same hotel as the convention, which included twenty-five bucks for overnight parking for the bike, I still had to pack my bags yet again, if only to ride the elevator down and back up again.
With my leisurely breakfast and then switching rooms, I figured to check out the L.A. Zoo and get a photo of the Hollywood sign.
My route there was 90 percent freeway. So I also figured to leave and return before rush hour. It is Monday.
Traffic was moderately heavy all the same. These freeways twist and merge with dual lane entrances and exits. Each of these big merges leads to a slowdown. They do severe rubber banding here, speeds from 65 mph to 0 with very little warning.
Is lane sharing an awesome concept or what? I finally got my chance. Cars actually move over to let you through. When traffic slowed, or stopped or crawled, I slid the bike from one lane to the next, hopscotching my way along through the much slower lines of cars. Too bad we don't have the tradition back east. Somehow I think our drivers are just too nasty to let it work.
Unfortunately, California is also populated with distracted drivers. It seems the great majority are on cell phones all the time. They drive with their windshields and rear view mirrors. I don't recall seeing a single driver swivel his head to check blind spots.
Even so I had great fun on the freeways.
The L.A. Zoo was fair at best. But they had meerkats and it was fascinating to see the interest people take in these active little animals. The exhibit had one high rock. That generated never ending activity as the meerkats took turns keeping lookout up on the high rock. They stood on their hind legs in that cute way they do. Sometimes three were up, sometimes only one. What was cool was that every few minutes they would switch positions. They were the most active animals I saw in the whole zoo.
Most of the rest of the animals were just laying in a corner somewhere, or in the case of the single hippo and single rhino, just standing stock still.
It was warm enough in the sun as I walked around the zoo that I actually sprang for a snow cone.
Exiting the zoo I worked my way around to the other side of Griffin Park to ride up the hill to the observatory. And there, up on top, facing away from the observatory was the famous Hollywood sign. I took a few photos, but in the camera lens it is much farther away than in person.
More freeway fun and I was at Eagle Rider at 4 pm, right on time. They checked-in the bike and gave me a ride to the hotel.
Left for next year is the southern end of the PCH and maybe the Hollywood walk of fame and Rodeo Drive, although they are not so much my thing. Across from the zoo is the Will Rogers museum of western history. That I would like to see. It is closed on Mondays. San Diego will have to wait.
If I am back at the IMAX convention next February, I may need to give it another try. I would especially like to ride that upper PCH along the cliffs through Big Sur with another 10 degrees of warmth. But it is winter in California. You have to stay out of the mountains. After we got rain last night, they had snow up in Big Bear, just a short ride to the east of here.
California, Day Five
California Day Five
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sightseeing eats time and cuts miles. Who cares?
Not obeying my own mantra, “Fear of rain is most always worse than rain itself,” last night I determined to see if I could come in a day early at the Airport Marriott, where my IMAX convention starts in two days.
I called in the morning. The rate was $199, my convention rate of $99 was not yet available. I played my government rate card and they came down to $110. So here I am, sitting in the Marriott restaurant, typing in today's ride remembrances.
My artisan hotel in Santa Barbara served no breakfast. No breakfast places were to be found close by. So I determined to hit the road and find something en route to L.A. I was hoping for a Denny's or something.
Nothing appeared for quite some time. I was really wanting that first cup of morning coffee, for nothing else than to burn out the leftover cigar taste in my mouth from the night before. Since my destination was now L.A., a reasonable two hour ride, I stuck with Route 1 the famous PCH, headed back in the direction I came a couple days earlier.
Suddenly a little sandwich board flashed past along the side of the road. Seaside Cafe, breakfast, lunch and dinner was advertised. I made a “uey” and dropped down a very steep switchback drive to the beach. It was one of the parks common to the California coast. Nothing more than the beach, parking lot, a few painted lines for RV parking, a pod for hookups, picnic table and fire ring. The campsites on the beach here are on the beach.
Opposite the campsites was a small building with restaurant and camp store serving meals and selling firewood and sundries. In front was one, very long, picnic table. A couple of surfers were standing around, tops of their wetsuits turned down exposing their chests and tattoos. I overheard they are here for the winter, down from Alaska to enjoy the warmth and waves. A lady was there too, sipping coffee.
A hand-written menu board offered breakfast burritos with bacon or “tri-tip,” six dollars.
I stood by the window for a very long time. I could hear someone was inside. The grill was sizzling. Glorious smells of grilling onions and meats wafted out of the window and mixed with the fresh, salty, beach air. Someone is in there. I hear grill noises, chopping, clanging metal spatula. Eventually the grill noises stopped. I figured maybe someone would take my order now. I waited, and waited longer and longer still.
Finally a very attractive, middle-aged lady, tall, with long blonde hair pulled back tight and sun weathered face appeared with a big smile and four breakfast burritos wrapped in shiny foil. She wore a bikini top over extra ample breasts with an apron layered on top. A set of turquoise beads started around her neck and disappeared into her cleavage. Hippy or surfer? I couldn't decide.
She seemed surprised to see me. But before I could explain, the lady sipping coffee walked up. “I'm sorry,” the cook lady said to me, “I'll take your order in just a moment.” To the coffee sipping lady she said, “Two breakfast burritos with tri-tip, and two with bacon.”
But the coffee lady had ordered only one with bacon. She asked if anyone wanted the extra with bacon. I hesitated. But the surfers were uninterested, so I said yes, in fact, that was exactly what I meant to order. (I had no idea what “tri-tip” was.)
The coffee lady paid in full for four burritos, then handed me the extra one with bacon. I held out my six dollars. But the coffee lady would not take it. I protested. She refused. “Give it to her instead as a tip,” the coffee lady said nodding her head toward the cook lady. So I did.
The cook lady was baffled too. “Well thank you,” she said to the coffee lady. The coffee lady said to forget it. “Let me give you something extra,” the cook lady offered. “It's okay. I know you,” the coffee lady said, adding that she was a regular and would be back and appreciated the cook lady and her cooking. “Then may I have your name?” the cook lady asked, preparing to write it down, I presume to later render some kindness or bonus to compensate on a future order. “None of that,” the coffee lady admonished, then walked off with her three burritos.
I stood there unsure of proper protocol for such a situation.
“Oh, now I have to make coffee and make breakfast for these boys, they've been very patient. Do you like strong coffee or weak coffee?” the cook lady asked me. “Any coffee,” I answered. “The coffee is 45 minutes old. I have to make new coffee. I will give you the old coffee for free in thanks for the extra money for the burrito. If you don't like the coffee, I will give you fresh coffee as soon as I make it, but first these boys have been so patient.”
She was California spacey and sweet and handed me a cup of steaming coffee. I'm guessing the permanent looking trailer next to the cement block cafe is hers. Guess she was attracted to the beach and found a way to stay.
I assured her I was fine, took the coffee from her with thanks and sat down to eat my very tasty, and large, and filling, breakfast burrito and drink the hot coffee. The coffee was fine. No waiting required. By fortune's smile I had jumped to the head of the line.
Looking to the surfers to see if they were upset, they were blissfully ignorant of the entire exchange.
“We may have missed our window of opportunity,” the one surfer said to the other. For a moment I thought they were thinking of me and my karma-produced, no-wait burrito. But it turned out they were assessing the wave action.
Eventually the surfers got their burritos. The were waiting for tri-trip after all. I will have to Google that. Never heard of the stuff. It sounds like a chemical.
I munched away, watching the waves and people.
My breakfast burrito was an entire Denny's “Grand Slam,” rolled into a tortilla. There were eggs, bacon, home fries, salsa, onions, all in an easy-to-hold form. No forks required. It was hot and delicious.
Another couple appeared and called into the window, rather loudly. I hadn't thought of that tactic. They were told the grill was out of breakfast. They ordered burgers and fries instead. The cook lady disappeared again.
She reappeared mid-preparation to sell a couple bundles of firewood to another camper.
Finally the surfer boys from Alaska got their breakfast. The other couple sat and waited for lunch.
A surfing couple emerged from the waves and walked up to an open public shower in front of me. They were muscular, both of them. Young and beautiful. He stripped off his wet suit first, down to nothing and then pulled on a pair of board shorts with nary a moment of modesty.
Unfortunately she wasn't so bold. He held a beach towel around her as she transitioned from wet suit to bikini. They washed the salt off their bodies and wet suits and surfboards and then threw everything, including themselves, dripping wet into an open Jeep.
Meanwhile I was joined by a local who decided that since I was sitting at the table by myself, I wanted conversation. He had just drawn a cup of the now fresh coffee.
He was the proud renter of the only odd numbered address in town. All the others are even numbered, because they sit on the beach side of the Pacific Coast Highway. His is the only place on the inland side of the PCH. He took obvious pride in his contrary address. Such is a western psyche earned by pioneers who braved hardships to push ever westward.
His place, my uninvited Californian said, is a hacienda in a lemon grove, what is left of an original ranch sold off in parcels to rich outsiders desiring water views. There was a lot more to his story. He told a good bit of it, and well.
He looked like a westerner. Thin and strong and wiry, he had a well worn baseball cap, the name of some equipment company advertised on the front. Between bill and cap was an earned stain of sweat and dirt. The brim was severely curled. Like the cook lady, his was another wind worn face. It bespoke years in the sun. He was a tradesman of some sort, a heavy equipment operator. He had a big and easy smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
I got a decent chunk of his life story. How he found the lemon ranch place by chance after he moved up here to work for a local company, and moved from a trailer into a house, and was working to save up enough to bring his wife up from Southern Cali. It was a good story. And he loved telling it.
I would have asked the lemon rancher what the heck tri-trip is, but couldn't get a word in edgewise. I would have asked the cook lady, but she had disappeared again, sounds of sizzling and chopping in her wake.
Now I've done California, found it by serendipitous collision of a hungry belly and a small roadside sign.
Until this morning, I had seen the scenery of California, but had not experienced her personality. Today along the PCH, in glorious sun, I had California for breakfast alongside the sand and waves and surfers and beach folk.
There was a strong, on-shore wind today. At some points the PCH was obscured by mist rolling of the comers.
Once again the temperature was tolerable, but 10 degrees below desirable. Even so there were lots of bikes out. Oh yeah; it's Sunday.
I tooled along, mostly in sunshine. In fact, I never saw any of the rain predicted for today.
In Malibu I stopped for a soda at the most un-Malibu site in town. There is a grubby, small Phillips 76 station right on PCH where it meets Coral Canyon Road. Enjoying the anti-extravagance statement, I sat on a stone wall next the the Harley and watched the parade of exotic cars, BMWs and Mercedes AMGs are a dime a dozen here, and motorcycles of all kinds.
Malibu is just about the end of the scenic PCH above L.A., that is to say it is the beginning if you're headed north.
From there, headed south, I jumped on the 10 then the 405 zipping into L.A. Note my California speak. They never use the word “Interstate” here. If you give a route number, it is assumed to be an Interstate highway. If it is not, you state “Route” so and so, or “California” so and so.
The freeways are fast, and intense, and many-laned.
California drivers are as bad as they say. It is not the aggressiveness of New York. They're just all out to lunch. Three-quarters are on cell phones. Half of them drive up close to the steering wheel peering ahead of them and seeing nothing to either side or in their mirrors. They make clueless lane changes and speed changes. They change lanes without looking or indication. They don't believe blind spots exist.
Fortunately a bit of aggressiveness goes a long way here. My East Coast attitude, backed up by the powerful Harley V-Twin, allowed me to feel in control. I was sure to, and able to, maintain a big space cushion around the bike at all times.
I still have not split any lanes, legal here, and much discussed among motorcycle riders. Tomorrow is my last chance this trip.
Maybe I was not so clever with the Marriott as I thought. Whether it was my government rate or my biker appearance can perhaps be solved with a discussion with my sister-in-law Kathleen who taught me, vicariously, the government rate trick. I will have to ask her if the government rate equals the crappiest room.
Marriott L.A. Airport sits perpendicular to the runway and boulevard. That means there are only two rooms per floor that directly face the noise. I got one of them on the seventh floor.
My whole purpose staying here tonight was not to have to move my stuff, packing and unpacking from a cheaper hotel to move here for my IMAX convention. I will have to see what noises tonight brings. I am not optimistic. In addition to the jets and the honking taxi drivers, there is a window with a padlock that squeaks in the wind. If I was traveling with my own bike, instead of a rental bike, I would take some duct tape out of my tool kit and try to seal the window or at least dull the metallic click of the padlock.
Last night when I determined to stay in L.A., instead of striking out for San Diego, I justified it in figuring I would do some of the touristy things here. To that end, I dumped my stuff in the room and went back out to the bike for a short trip to Venice Beach.
Unfortunately, this was winter Venice Beach. A stiff wind was off the ocean and blowing a good bit of the beach across the parking lot. (I have sand in my ears still tonight at dinner as I write this.) I parked the Harley to take a picture near a break in the parking lot wall, but then moved it. I was afraid the paint would be sandblasted off if I left it in that spot near an entrance to the beach. Plus I was slipping on sand as I tried to backpedal the bike out of its space. I finally settled on the most sheltered spot I could find, as far away from the beach as possible on the city side of the parking lot.
(Boy am I ever on vacation. I just put cream and sugar in my coffee. I have been drinking coffee black since college. I forgot how good it tastes this way, like an indulgent coffee milkshake.)
It wasn't the Venice Beach you see on the Travel Channel. Oh, a very few girls gamely tried to show some skin. But it was like 50 degrees with gale force winds. A few rollerbladers went by, more skateboarders, more in the skate park. Muscle beach was deserted. The actual beach had less than a handful of strolling people. Nobody was sitting down. The sand was blowing across the beach and sweeping up the dunes and blowing off the tops like a “Lawrence of Arabia” movie. Mostly just folks, probably tourists like me, bundled up in sweatshirts and windbreakers, were walking the famed Venice strip.
Even the crazies were cut down to the hardcore few. One carried a cardboard sign, hand lettered, that said, “Circumcision Kills!” Funny, it hasn't deterred me for the past 54 years. Another decried the L.A. County Commissioners' moves to inhibit free speech on the Venice strip. (I am guessing someone asked them to pay rent for their stall.) Another had pictures of Hillary Clinton and George Bush, but so many confusing signs I could not really discern any pattern his protest.
Mostly it looked to me like a multi-block long walkway lined with Jersey Shore boardwalk type shops on the city side and a parade of losers on the beach side, all trying to eek out a living on cheap wares and marginal talent, respectively. I kept thinking maybe Annie would like something from Venice beach, something that said “California,” something unique. I saw only one potential vendor. But his painted mini surfboard would never have made the plane ride home.
I walked out to the end of the pier to watch the sunset. You can watch the sun fall into the ocean on this side of the country. At the very end of the pier a small group of people was having a ceremony of some sort. It involved flowers and in the end the leader passed a plastic grocery bag around for donations. I stayed away.
Like Santa Barbara, the bums tainted the ambiance. They blend in better in Venice than in the “Rivera of America.”
Rain finally came, at 11:11 p.m. I was very comfortably watching it from my seventh floor window. Dry. Inside. It's supposed to clear out by tomorrow late morning. Maybe I'll sleep in. It is, after all, my last vacation day.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sightseeing eats time and cuts miles. Who cares?
Not obeying my own mantra, “Fear of rain is most always worse than rain itself,” last night I determined to see if I could come in a day early at the Airport Marriott, where my IMAX convention starts in two days.
I called in the morning. The rate was $199, my convention rate of $99 was not yet available. I played my government rate card and they came down to $110. So here I am, sitting in the Marriott restaurant, typing in today's ride remembrances.
My artisan hotel in Santa Barbara served no breakfast. No breakfast places were to be found close by. So I determined to hit the road and find something en route to L.A. I was hoping for a Denny's or something.
Nothing appeared for quite some time. I was really wanting that first cup of morning coffee, for nothing else than to burn out the leftover cigar taste in my mouth from the night before. Since my destination was now L.A., a reasonable two hour ride, I stuck with Route 1 the famous PCH, headed back in the direction I came a couple days earlier.
Suddenly a little sandwich board flashed past along the side of the road. Seaside Cafe, breakfast, lunch and dinner was advertised. I made a “uey” and dropped down a very steep switchback drive to the beach. It was one of the parks common to the California coast. Nothing more than the beach, parking lot, a few painted lines for RV parking, a pod for hookups, picnic table and fire ring. The campsites on the beach here are on the beach.
Opposite the campsites was a small building with restaurant and camp store serving meals and selling firewood and sundries. In front was one, very long, picnic table. A couple of surfers were standing around, tops of their wetsuits turned down exposing their chests and tattoos. I overheard they are here for the winter, down from Alaska to enjoy the warmth and waves. A lady was there too, sipping coffee.
A hand-written menu board offered breakfast burritos with bacon or “tri-tip,” six dollars.
I stood by the window for a very long time. I could hear someone was inside. The grill was sizzling. Glorious smells of grilling onions and meats wafted out of the window and mixed with the fresh, salty, beach air. Someone is in there. I hear grill noises, chopping, clanging metal spatula. Eventually the grill noises stopped. I figured maybe someone would take my order now. I waited, and waited longer and longer still.
Finally a very attractive, middle-aged lady, tall, with long blonde hair pulled back tight and sun weathered face appeared with a big smile and four breakfast burritos wrapped in shiny foil. She wore a bikini top over extra ample breasts with an apron layered on top. A set of turquoise beads started around her neck and disappeared into her cleavage. Hippy or surfer? I couldn't decide.
She seemed surprised to see me. But before I could explain, the lady sipping coffee walked up. “I'm sorry,” the cook lady said to me, “I'll take your order in just a moment.” To the coffee sipping lady she said, “Two breakfast burritos with tri-tip, and two with bacon.”
But the coffee lady had ordered only one with bacon. She asked if anyone wanted the extra with bacon. I hesitated. But the surfers were uninterested, so I said yes, in fact, that was exactly what I meant to order. (I had no idea what “tri-tip” was.)
The coffee lady paid in full for four burritos, then handed me the extra one with bacon. I held out my six dollars. But the coffee lady would not take it. I protested. She refused. “Give it to her instead as a tip,” the coffee lady said nodding her head toward the cook lady. So I did.
The cook lady was baffled too. “Well thank you,” she said to the coffee lady. The coffee lady said to forget it. “Let me give you something extra,” the cook lady offered. “It's okay. I know you,” the coffee lady said, adding that she was a regular and would be back and appreciated the cook lady and her cooking. “Then may I have your name?” the cook lady asked, preparing to write it down, I presume to later render some kindness or bonus to compensate on a future order. “None of that,” the coffee lady admonished, then walked off with her three burritos.
I stood there unsure of proper protocol for such a situation.
“Oh, now I have to make coffee and make breakfast for these boys, they've been very patient. Do you like strong coffee or weak coffee?” the cook lady asked me. “Any coffee,” I answered. “The coffee is 45 minutes old. I have to make new coffee. I will give you the old coffee for free in thanks for the extra money for the burrito. If you don't like the coffee, I will give you fresh coffee as soon as I make it, but first these boys have been so patient.”
She was California spacey and sweet and handed me a cup of steaming coffee. I'm guessing the permanent looking trailer next to the cement block cafe is hers. Guess she was attracted to the beach and found a way to stay.
I assured her I was fine, took the coffee from her with thanks and sat down to eat my very tasty, and large, and filling, breakfast burrito and drink the hot coffee. The coffee was fine. No waiting required. By fortune's smile I had jumped to the head of the line.
Looking to the surfers to see if they were upset, they were blissfully ignorant of the entire exchange.
“We may have missed our window of opportunity,” the one surfer said to the other. For a moment I thought they were thinking of me and my karma-produced, no-wait burrito. But it turned out they were assessing the wave action.
Eventually the surfers got their burritos. The were waiting for tri-trip after all. I will have to Google that. Never heard of the stuff. It sounds like a chemical.
I munched away, watching the waves and people.
My breakfast burrito was an entire Denny's “Grand Slam,” rolled into a tortilla. There were eggs, bacon, home fries, salsa, onions, all in an easy-to-hold form. No forks required. It was hot and delicious.
Another couple appeared and called into the window, rather loudly. I hadn't thought of that tactic. They were told the grill was out of breakfast. They ordered burgers and fries instead. The cook lady disappeared again.
She reappeared mid-preparation to sell a couple bundles of firewood to another camper.
Finally the surfer boys from Alaska got their breakfast. The other couple sat and waited for lunch.
A surfing couple emerged from the waves and walked up to an open public shower in front of me. They were muscular, both of them. Young and beautiful. He stripped off his wet suit first, down to nothing and then pulled on a pair of board shorts with nary a moment of modesty.
Unfortunately she wasn't so bold. He held a beach towel around her as she transitioned from wet suit to bikini. They washed the salt off their bodies and wet suits and surfboards and then threw everything, including themselves, dripping wet into an open Jeep.
Meanwhile I was joined by a local who decided that since I was sitting at the table by myself, I wanted conversation. He had just drawn a cup of the now fresh coffee.
He was the proud renter of the only odd numbered address in town. All the others are even numbered, because they sit on the beach side of the Pacific Coast Highway. His is the only place on the inland side of the PCH. He took obvious pride in his contrary address. Such is a western psyche earned by pioneers who braved hardships to push ever westward.
His place, my uninvited Californian said, is a hacienda in a lemon grove, what is left of an original ranch sold off in parcels to rich outsiders desiring water views. There was a lot more to his story. He told a good bit of it, and well.
He looked like a westerner. Thin and strong and wiry, he had a well worn baseball cap, the name of some equipment company advertised on the front. Between bill and cap was an earned stain of sweat and dirt. The brim was severely curled. Like the cook lady, his was another wind worn face. It bespoke years in the sun. He was a tradesman of some sort, a heavy equipment operator. He had a big and easy smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
I got a decent chunk of his life story. How he found the lemon ranch place by chance after he moved up here to work for a local company, and moved from a trailer into a house, and was working to save up enough to bring his wife up from Southern Cali. It was a good story. And he loved telling it.
I would have asked the lemon rancher what the heck tri-trip is, but couldn't get a word in edgewise. I would have asked the cook lady, but she had disappeared again, sounds of sizzling and chopping in her wake.
Now I've done California, found it by serendipitous collision of a hungry belly and a small roadside sign.
Until this morning, I had seen the scenery of California, but had not experienced her personality. Today along the PCH, in glorious sun, I had California for breakfast alongside the sand and waves and surfers and beach folk.
There was a strong, on-shore wind today. At some points the PCH was obscured by mist rolling of the comers.
Once again the temperature was tolerable, but 10 degrees below desirable. Even so there were lots of bikes out. Oh yeah; it's Sunday.
I tooled along, mostly in sunshine. In fact, I never saw any of the rain predicted for today.
In Malibu I stopped for a soda at the most un-Malibu site in town. There is a grubby, small Phillips 76 station right on PCH where it meets Coral Canyon Road. Enjoying the anti-extravagance statement, I sat on a stone wall next the the Harley and watched the parade of exotic cars, BMWs and Mercedes AMGs are a dime a dozen here, and motorcycles of all kinds.
Malibu is just about the end of the scenic PCH above L.A., that is to say it is the beginning if you're headed north.
From there, headed south, I jumped on the 10 then the 405 zipping into L.A. Note my California speak. They never use the word “Interstate” here. If you give a route number, it is assumed to be an Interstate highway. If it is not, you state “Route” so and so, or “California” so and so.
The freeways are fast, and intense, and many-laned.
California drivers are as bad as they say. It is not the aggressiveness of New York. They're just all out to lunch. Three-quarters are on cell phones. Half of them drive up close to the steering wheel peering ahead of them and seeing nothing to either side or in their mirrors. They make clueless lane changes and speed changes. They change lanes without looking or indication. They don't believe blind spots exist.
Fortunately a bit of aggressiveness goes a long way here. My East Coast attitude, backed up by the powerful Harley V-Twin, allowed me to feel in control. I was sure to, and able to, maintain a big space cushion around the bike at all times.
I still have not split any lanes, legal here, and much discussed among motorcycle riders. Tomorrow is my last chance this trip.
Maybe I was not so clever with the Marriott as I thought. Whether it was my government rate or my biker appearance can perhaps be solved with a discussion with my sister-in-law Kathleen who taught me, vicariously, the government rate trick. I will have to ask her if the government rate equals the crappiest room.
Marriott L.A. Airport sits perpendicular to the runway and boulevard. That means there are only two rooms per floor that directly face the noise. I got one of them on the seventh floor.
My whole purpose staying here tonight was not to have to move my stuff, packing and unpacking from a cheaper hotel to move here for my IMAX convention. I will have to see what noises tonight brings. I am not optimistic. In addition to the jets and the honking taxi drivers, there is a window with a padlock that squeaks in the wind. If I was traveling with my own bike, instead of a rental bike, I would take some duct tape out of my tool kit and try to seal the window or at least dull the metallic click of the padlock.
Last night when I determined to stay in L.A., instead of striking out for San Diego, I justified it in figuring I would do some of the touristy things here. To that end, I dumped my stuff in the room and went back out to the bike for a short trip to Venice Beach.
Unfortunately, this was winter Venice Beach. A stiff wind was off the ocean and blowing a good bit of the beach across the parking lot. (I have sand in my ears still tonight at dinner as I write this.) I parked the Harley to take a picture near a break in the parking lot wall, but then moved it. I was afraid the paint would be sandblasted off if I left it in that spot near an entrance to the beach. Plus I was slipping on sand as I tried to backpedal the bike out of its space. I finally settled on the most sheltered spot I could find, as far away from the beach as possible on the city side of the parking lot.
(Boy am I ever on vacation. I just put cream and sugar in my coffee. I have been drinking coffee black since college. I forgot how good it tastes this way, like an indulgent coffee milkshake.)
It wasn't the Venice Beach you see on the Travel Channel. Oh, a very few girls gamely tried to show some skin. But it was like 50 degrees with gale force winds. A few rollerbladers went by, more skateboarders, more in the skate park. Muscle beach was deserted. The actual beach had less than a handful of strolling people. Nobody was sitting down. The sand was blowing across the beach and sweeping up the dunes and blowing off the tops like a “Lawrence of Arabia” movie. Mostly just folks, probably tourists like me, bundled up in sweatshirts and windbreakers, were walking the famed Venice strip.
Even the crazies were cut down to the hardcore few. One carried a cardboard sign, hand lettered, that said, “Circumcision Kills!” Funny, it hasn't deterred me for the past 54 years. Another decried the L.A. County Commissioners' moves to inhibit free speech on the Venice strip. (I am guessing someone asked them to pay rent for their stall.) Another had pictures of Hillary Clinton and George Bush, but so many confusing signs I could not really discern any pattern his protest.
Mostly it looked to me like a multi-block long walkway lined with Jersey Shore boardwalk type shops on the city side and a parade of losers on the beach side, all trying to eek out a living on cheap wares and marginal talent, respectively. I kept thinking maybe Annie would like something from Venice beach, something that said “California,” something unique. I saw only one potential vendor. But his painted mini surfboard would never have made the plane ride home.
I walked out to the end of the pier to watch the sunset. You can watch the sun fall into the ocean on this side of the country. At the very end of the pier a small group of people was having a ceremony of some sort. It involved flowers and in the end the leader passed a plastic grocery bag around for donations. I stayed away.
Like Santa Barbara, the bums tainted the ambiance. They blend in better in Venice than in the “Rivera of America.”
Rain finally came, at 11:11 p.m. I was very comfortably watching it from my seventh floor window. Dry. Inside. It's supposed to clear out by tomorrow late morning. Maybe I'll sleep in. It is, after all, my last vacation day.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
California Day Four
California Day Four
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Waking early I serenely fell back to sleep until my late alarm at 8 a.m. Amazing that, because the hotel was filled with girls youth soccer teams. They were up early, boisterously so.
Next door there is a diner and the hotel offers, in lieu of free breakfast, a five dollar voucher. It was not nearly enough. This is not a diner, at least not East Coast style. Maybe all diners in California charge $4.75 for a glass of orange juice. And it was a regular size glass, nothing jumbo about it. Five dollars? Really? Don't they grow the freakin' fruit just down the road?
I got a short stack of pancakes, which was more than enough and a cup of coffee. That's it. My voucher still covered just half my breakfast expenditure.
Guess the Greeks haven't found California yet.
Last night I was perusing the hotel information booklet. A listing under “area attractions” caught my eye, a warbirds museum. This morning I arrived at Estrella Warbirds, walked in just behind a classic car club, one of whose members apparently was also a member of the museum. The delightfully sweet, older lady who took my 10 dollars, suggested I join the car club's tour as it was just getting started.
Notice how you always find old people at museums?
The guy leading the tour was a WWII pilot, met Pappy Boyington, in person. He gave a delightful tour. I ended up spending more time here than even Monterey Bay Aquarium. The old fellow had a story for every exhibit. He kept promising to speed up the tour, then drifted off into another story. We won't have these guys around for very much longer. Hopefully they will be replaced by other old guys who flew in Vietnam or Iraq.
It is the same at the New England Air Museum. If you go there on certain days, they have pilots who actually flew, in combat, the same type of plane you are viewing. Each pilot stands next to the kind of plane he flew and tells stories. What it really was like.
How amazing it must be for those who were there and came out alive. I am too old now to serve. But I always wonder how my life would have turned had I accepted a Marine Corps commission straight out of college. I would not have been a pilot. My eyes require correction.
I am not sure where, or how, I would have served. And that is a big factor that kept me out of the military. I was not afraid to go to some troubled land. It was that I was not so ready to surrender my destiny so completely. With my college and writing ability, I could well have ended up behind a desk. What good is joining the Marines if you don't get to blow something up?
“All man's achievements pale in comparison to war.” It was a tank commander who said that, a Californian named George Patton. And when you look at the millions of dollars of airborne death machines, now museum pieces, you glimpse only a sliver of what Patton said.
The museum encompassed most all of aviation. There was a not so good model of the Wright flyer. Some very interesting WWI artifacts, the war to end all wars.
All the WWII planes, except for a Douglass Bomber, were in hangers. They have some scout planes, small stuff and the big bomber.
Parked outside are a collection of fighter planes from various wars, starting with Korea. They have the Saber Jet, a plane I have always admired. It was the jet plane model I played with as a kid. Famous MiG killer. Compact, powerful and those menacing six, 50 caliber machine guns sticking out of the nose.
Also is the similarly built Douglass A6 Intruder. I have been fascinated with the plane since reading “Flight of the Intruder.” Like the Saber, the Intruder is a stubby plane. Pilot and bombardier sit side by side. Unlike the Sabre, Intruder carries no guns or missiles to defend itself. It relied instead upon its speed and radar jamming equipment.
My morning melted into the past.
When I suited up to go the sun was so bright I optimistically donned my fingerless gloves. I was hoping to come back from California with the telltale tanned patches on the back of my hands that only a fellow biker would recognize. After an exit or two on the Interstate, I got off to switch to winter gloves. It was warm enough, at least, that I did not need my heaviest set of insulated winter gloves.
Clouds were all around, hovering over the mountains again. Intrinsically I understand convection and precipitation. It is another thing to see it demonstrated so clearly. You don't get the same effect back East.
Here you are riding down Route 101 South on a pool table flat plain. On either side of you are what appear to be scrub covered hills. Except some of these rise up 1, 2, 3 thousand feet, some up to five, in a very short distance.
Our mountains are much more gradual. There are lots of trees disguising the rise in elevation. You can't get so close to Eastern mountains without first traveling through Piedmont and hills. In California you look across the plains and, zoom, the mountains leap up from the plain. Can you imagine getting here in an ox-drawn wagon? Knowing where the passes are would be critical.
Again today I had to squeeze through the mountains at the end of the valley. When I did, I got rained upon again. Not a lot. On the other side I was back skirting the Pacific Ocean. It's winds drove the clouds inland to the mountains. The air was cool still, too cool for what I had hoped from this trip. But at least today the sun shown most all my ride.
My target today was the Santa Barbara zoo. They have meerkats and I was hoping to get some good pictures, or at least see how they were exhibited. (Such are the sumer attraction at The Maritime Aquarium where I work.) Only when I approached the ticket booth the sign said the exhibit was closed today. I did not go in.
By now it was 3:00 and I was maybe an hour above L.A. I'm thinking I don't want to stay in L.A. I don't want to ride into L.A. anywhere near 5 p.m. And I am not sure I have enough time, or warmth, left in the day to cross the sprawling city for something better on the south side.
I backtracked through Santa Barbara and found a boutique hotel for tonight. It's a little pricey at $124, that was $20 off the regular rate, or so they told me.
Santa Barbara says it is “America's Riviera.” Funny, South Beach, Fla., says the same thing on the right coast.
Santa Barbara has more bums than South Beach. Here the bums are very scruffy looking. The ocean front is littered with them, gathered in clans, sleeping alone surrounded by their piles. The dodge is on and they all have their hands out, some with signs declaring their hunger.
I always wonder what these guys were like in high school. They had access to the same free education as us all. I wonder, did they waste it? Were they too young to see the value?
Well even Jesus said, “The poor will always be with us.” That's some cold hearted reality from Emmanuel, the God among us.
Santa Barbara offers a long jogging, walking, bicycling path sandwiched between the main road and beach.
I had time to go for a run along the beach on the path with the sound of waves and seagulls. Geeze, I gotta get back in shape. My hotel is at the northern end of the path. I never ran far enough to see the southern end.
Tonight I am eating out on a pier, overlooking the harbor, channel buoys blinking red and green outside the window; remember, red right return.
After dinner I now walked the long path back to my hotel, enjoying a good cigar picked up in Monterey yesterday. A chilly wind comes off the ocean. I zip my rain jacket all the way up my neck and fasten the snap to hold it close, push my free hand (one required to tend the cigar) down deep into the pocket. Shouldn't complain. It is February after all.
Just as I am finding my relaxation, I am nearly out of time. Tomorrow, Sunday, is predicted for rain. I haven't yet decided what to do. Riding all day in the rain is not my first choice.
Los Angeles is like a gulf, a dead zone of urbanization, that I must cross to get back to scenery. I have to MapQuest it out to see if I should try. The bike isn't due until Tuesday morning. But I have IMAX meetings at 6 and 7 pm on Monday. So I will turn the bike in Monday before Eagle Rider closes at 5. That means I really have one and a half days left of vacation.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Waking early I serenely fell back to sleep until my late alarm at 8 a.m. Amazing that, because the hotel was filled with girls youth soccer teams. They were up early, boisterously so.
Next door there is a diner and the hotel offers, in lieu of free breakfast, a five dollar voucher. It was not nearly enough. This is not a diner, at least not East Coast style. Maybe all diners in California charge $4.75 for a glass of orange juice. And it was a regular size glass, nothing jumbo about it. Five dollars? Really? Don't they grow the freakin' fruit just down the road?
I got a short stack of pancakes, which was more than enough and a cup of coffee. That's it. My voucher still covered just half my breakfast expenditure.
Guess the Greeks haven't found California yet.
Last night I was perusing the hotel information booklet. A listing under “area attractions” caught my eye, a warbirds museum. This morning I arrived at Estrella Warbirds, walked in just behind a classic car club, one of whose members apparently was also a member of the museum. The delightfully sweet, older lady who took my 10 dollars, suggested I join the car club's tour as it was just getting started.
Notice how you always find old people at museums?
The guy leading the tour was a WWII pilot, met Pappy Boyington, in person. He gave a delightful tour. I ended up spending more time here than even Monterey Bay Aquarium. The old fellow had a story for every exhibit. He kept promising to speed up the tour, then drifted off into another story. We won't have these guys around for very much longer. Hopefully they will be replaced by other old guys who flew in Vietnam or Iraq.
It is the same at the New England Air Museum. If you go there on certain days, they have pilots who actually flew, in combat, the same type of plane you are viewing. Each pilot stands next to the kind of plane he flew and tells stories. What it really was like.
How amazing it must be for those who were there and came out alive. I am too old now to serve. But I always wonder how my life would have turned had I accepted a Marine Corps commission straight out of college. I would not have been a pilot. My eyes require correction.
I am not sure where, or how, I would have served. And that is a big factor that kept me out of the military. I was not afraid to go to some troubled land. It was that I was not so ready to surrender my destiny so completely. With my college and writing ability, I could well have ended up behind a desk. What good is joining the Marines if you don't get to blow something up?
“All man's achievements pale in comparison to war.” It was a tank commander who said that, a Californian named George Patton. And when you look at the millions of dollars of airborne death machines, now museum pieces, you glimpse only a sliver of what Patton said.
The museum encompassed most all of aviation. There was a not so good model of the Wright flyer. Some very interesting WWI artifacts, the war to end all wars.
All the WWII planes, except for a Douglass Bomber, were in hangers. They have some scout planes, small stuff and the big bomber.
Parked outside are a collection of fighter planes from various wars, starting with Korea. They have the Saber Jet, a plane I have always admired. It was the jet plane model I played with as a kid. Famous MiG killer. Compact, powerful and those menacing six, 50 caliber machine guns sticking out of the nose.
Also is the similarly built Douglass A6 Intruder. I have been fascinated with the plane since reading “Flight of the Intruder.” Like the Saber, the Intruder is a stubby plane. Pilot and bombardier sit side by side. Unlike the Sabre, Intruder carries no guns or missiles to defend itself. It relied instead upon its speed and radar jamming equipment.
My morning melted into the past.
When I suited up to go the sun was so bright I optimistically donned my fingerless gloves. I was hoping to come back from California with the telltale tanned patches on the back of my hands that only a fellow biker would recognize. After an exit or two on the Interstate, I got off to switch to winter gloves. It was warm enough, at least, that I did not need my heaviest set of insulated winter gloves.
Clouds were all around, hovering over the mountains again. Intrinsically I understand convection and precipitation. It is another thing to see it demonstrated so clearly. You don't get the same effect back East.
Here you are riding down Route 101 South on a pool table flat plain. On either side of you are what appear to be scrub covered hills. Except some of these rise up 1, 2, 3 thousand feet, some up to five, in a very short distance.
Our mountains are much more gradual. There are lots of trees disguising the rise in elevation. You can't get so close to Eastern mountains without first traveling through Piedmont and hills. In California you look across the plains and, zoom, the mountains leap up from the plain. Can you imagine getting here in an ox-drawn wagon? Knowing where the passes are would be critical.
Again today I had to squeeze through the mountains at the end of the valley. When I did, I got rained upon again. Not a lot. On the other side I was back skirting the Pacific Ocean. It's winds drove the clouds inland to the mountains. The air was cool still, too cool for what I had hoped from this trip. But at least today the sun shown most all my ride.
My target today was the Santa Barbara zoo. They have meerkats and I was hoping to get some good pictures, or at least see how they were exhibited. (Such are the sumer attraction at The Maritime Aquarium where I work.) Only when I approached the ticket booth the sign said the exhibit was closed today. I did not go in.
By now it was 3:00 and I was maybe an hour above L.A. I'm thinking I don't want to stay in L.A. I don't want to ride into L.A. anywhere near 5 p.m. And I am not sure I have enough time, or warmth, left in the day to cross the sprawling city for something better on the south side.
I backtracked through Santa Barbara and found a boutique hotel for tonight. It's a little pricey at $124, that was $20 off the regular rate, or so they told me.
Santa Barbara says it is “America's Riviera.” Funny, South Beach, Fla., says the same thing on the right coast.
Santa Barbara has more bums than South Beach. Here the bums are very scruffy looking. The ocean front is littered with them, gathered in clans, sleeping alone surrounded by their piles. The dodge is on and they all have their hands out, some with signs declaring their hunger.
I always wonder what these guys were like in high school. They had access to the same free education as us all. I wonder, did they waste it? Were they too young to see the value?
Well even Jesus said, “The poor will always be with us.” That's some cold hearted reality from Emmanuel, the God among us.
Santa Barbara offers a long jogging, walking, bicycling path sandwiched between the main road and beach.
I had time to go for a run along the beach on the path with the sound of waves and seagulls. Geeze, I gotta get back in shape. My hotel is at the northern end of the path. I never ran far enough to see the southern end.
Tonight I am eating out on a pier, overlooking the harbor, channel buoys blinking red and green outside the window; remember, red right return.
After dinner I now walked the long path back to my hotel, enjoying a good cigar picked up in Monterey yesterday. A chilly wind comes off the ocean. I zip my rain jacket all the way up my neck and fasten the snap to hold it close, push my free hand (one required to tend the cigar) down deep into the pocket. Shouldn't complain. It is February after all.
Just as I am finding my relaxation, I am nearly out of time. Tomorrow, Sunday, is predicted for rain. I haven't yet decided what to do. Riding all day in the rain is not my first choice.
Los Angeles is like a gulf, a dead zone of urbanization, that I must cross to get back to scenery. I have to MapQuest it out to see if I should try. The bike isn't due until Tuesday morning. But I have IMAX meetings at 6 and 7 pm on Monday. So I will turn the bike in Monday before Eagle Rider closes at 5. That means I really have one and a half days left of vacation.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
California Day Three
California Day Three
Friday, February 19, 2010
Monterey Bay Aquarium was, is, awesome.
Everything is done well. Thoughtful touches are everywhere. Cement support columns are painted as pilings. Rocks crop up all in hallways and doorways as you walk through the galleries, always with patches of corals, fans or mussels attached. Sometimes the rocks simply break up open space on the floor. Other times they form great arches, decorated with undersea plants and barnacles, giving you the feeling of being underwater everywhere inside the Aquarium.
They use sounds to good effect. There are video screens, big ones, lots of them.
It is rare to find a tank with a single species. Typically there are shrimp or crabs or multiple fish, even when one animal is clearly the focus. Their schooling tank is an amazing circular dome, fish swirling above your head. Another schooling tank for mackerel is cleverly constructed so that you see only one straightaway on the fish racetrack. The impression is a never ending stream of fish going by you.
They have jellies, a whole gallery of them. Monterey grows moon jellies as big as dinner plates. They have brown nettles, big ones, tentacles tangled together in a mass. They have comb jellies, streaming cilia clearly flashing.
Their penguins share their water with fish. Bromeliads accent their rockwork. Underwater views are natural with rockwork sides and sandy bottoms.
Monterey's “jewel” tanks come in various shapes and sizes. Some are domes you can walk around, others are half circles mounted to the wall with bottoms that appear to fall away to infinity. There is much clever use of perspective and trope d'oeil.
Touch tanks abound. One is a very long, serpentine presentation. There is a wave crash exhibit, not all that big. The aviary also was small, but amazing. And in the aviary waters leopard sharks and rays patrolled with small bait fish accents.
I was unimpressed with their big Outer Bay tank. Much hyped, it seems to fall out of character with the rest of the exhibits. It is big. But all plain blue with a curving back. The bottom had sand and rocks. Yes, I know the open ocean lacks perspective. Somehow the effect is lacking. Instead it looks like a big tank of water, a cement swimming pool painted blue. Fish population in this tank seemed lacking. There were some big fish. Tuna are amazing to see up close. Unfortunately one tuna was very obviously damaged or sick with a scaly growth around its mouth.
Hammerhead sharks are always cool and unique. Perhaps the best entertainment was the ever swirling school of bait fish darting around the tank, flashing and changing direction. There was no ocean sunfish, as promised in their advertising. (I was glad to see I'm not the only one that gets jammed up like that.)
The otter exhibit is big and two stories tall. But there were only two otters which significantly dampened the drama.
Monterey's signature tank is the three story tall kelp forest. That exhibit did not disappoint. They really maximize the tank with views from various related galleries. I was lucky enough to catch an interview with a diver as he fed the fish and spoke via wireless mike with a docent standing outside the tank, relaying questions from the audience.
Outside balconies along the back of the Aquarium open up to water views of Monterey Bay and the Pacific Ocean. Decks offer broad spaces for relaxation and tie Aquarium to bay and sea.
As morning neared noon the experience became less enjoyable. Obstreperous school children grew in number and volume.
I was ready to go anyway. Rain was forecast for the evening. It was cold along the coast. Luckily I was lured inland to Salinas to see John Steinbeck's old stomping grounds and museum. It was a worthwhile trip.
As you come up through the hills from Monterey, quite suddenly you drop down into the tabletop flat Salinas River Valley. I also picked up a few degrees temperature and even, gasp, some breaks of sunshine.
This is perhaps the richest soil on earth, millions of years of rich topsoil drained from the mountains on either side of the valley. The hills are now scrubby, not much grows on the depleted and arid slopes after the good soil ran off to the valley. Hills are deeply cut, like most of the California I have seen so far. But the bottom land, black, deep soils, mounded high and covered with plastic for strawberries or neatly plied into rows of various construction according to their crop, broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce. Amazing vistas stretched on either side as I cut across the valley, east to Salinas.
On the way across, I got a pleasant surprise as I passed by Laguna Seca racetrack. I did not stop. There was too much travel left for today and I already spent half my tourism time on the Aquarium, the second half was promised to John Steinbeck.
The museum was well done and included an agricultural museum and art gallery. There were some Steinbeck artifacts and an interesting history of this amazing farmland, and the immigrant workers who continue to come here and do the very difficult stoop work and hand operations required to grow high value crops.
An interesting adjunct was that Japanese farmers who first came here could not legally own land. So they leased the land until their children, born here and therefore automatic citizens, became of legal age and “purchased” the land on their parents behalf. I am not sure such a multi-generational plan would work with most Americans.
There has been an international parade of farm workers. Interesting that the great Mexican immigration was actually encouraged by the Federal Government to replace Japanese workers locked up by the government in interment camps during WWII. After the Mexicans, workers streamed in from other countries so poor as to make look good such backbreaking, hot, stoop work as is required by large scale vegetable growing. I think the museum said Philippinos are now the latest group.
From Salinas I stayed inland, riding Route 101 south. Lush lands stretched out before me and I tooled along an arrow-straight highway.
I could see the weather moving in from the seaside horizon. Riding south the mountains to my right were dark; angry, flat and heavy clouds boiled up and over them from the sea. The mountains to my right still glowed in soft patches of sun as puffy clouds cruised above them.
For a while there I was thinking I could make it back to Pismo Beach and that cool hotel hanging on the cliffs. But it was getting darker. I finally pulled off and switched my glasses from darks to clears. Well at least things appeared lighter with the clear glasses, but not off to the west. Now I could actually see rain falling on the hills on my right.
What was also clear was that the valley was ending. The two mountain ranges seemed to be converging ahead of me. As I got closer, the road began turning to work its way up, switchbacking through the hills. It also started raining, lightly, but rain brought cold.
I was starting to think that I wasn't needing to push too far today. Certainly it would be wetter and colder on the coast. As Route 101 exits this valley, that's where it heads.
A couple of billboards for Black Oak Best Western in Paso Robles convinced me and quite at the last minute I dove off the exit. I figured it just right. I mean I was no sooner parking the bike at hotel registration than the big rain drops began falling. (The hotel even had dedicated bike parking spots for registration.)
It rained, steady, well into the night.
Just around the corner I enjoyed dinner at Big Bubba's Bad BBQ. Actually, it was pretty good.
From my hotel room's information booklet, I learned Estrella War Bird Museum is nearby. A bit of Googling convinced me it is the way to start my day tomorrow.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Monterey Bay Aquarium was, is, awesome.
Everything is done well. Thoughtful touches are everywhere. Cement support columns are painted as pilings. Rocks crop up all in hallways and doorways as you walk through the galleries, always with patches of corals, fans or mussels attached. Sometimes the rocks simply break up open space on the floor. Other times they form great arches, decorated with undersea plants and barnacles, giving you the feeling of being underwater everywhere inside the Aquarium.
They use sounds to good effect. There are video screens, big ones, lots of them.
It is rare to find a tank with a single species. Typically there are shrimp or crabs or multiple fish, even when one animal is clearly the focus. Their schooling tank is an amazing circular dome, fish swirling above your head. Another schooling tank for mackerel is cleverly constructed so that you see only one straightaway on the fish racetrack. The impression is a never ending stream of fish going by you.
They have jellies, a whole gallery of them. Monterey grows moon jellies as big as dinner plates. They have brown nettles, big ones, tentacles tangled together in a mass. They have comb jellies, streaming cilia clearly flashing.
Their penguins share their water with fish. Bromeliads accent their rockwork. Underwater views are natural with rockwork sides and sandy bottoms.
Monterey's “jewel” tanks come in various shapes and sizes. Some are domes you can walk around, others are half circles mounted to the wall with bottoms that appear to fall away to infinity. There is much clever use of perspective and trope d'oeil.
Touch tanks abound. One is a very long, serpentine presentation. There is a wave crash exhibit, not all that big. The aviary also was small, but amazing. And in the aviary waters leopard sharks and rays patrolled with small bait fish accents.
I was unimpressed with their big Outer Bay tank. Much hyped, it seems to fall out of character with the rest of the exhibits. It is big. But all plain blue with a curving back. The bottom had sand and rocks. Yes, I know the open ocean lacks perspective. Somehow the effect is lacking. Instead it looks like a big tank of water, a cement swimming pool painted blue. Fish population in this tank seemed lacking. There were some big fish. Tuna are amazing to see up close. Unfortunately one tuna was very obviously damaged or sick with a scaly growth around its mouth.
Hammerhead sharks are always cool and unique. Perhaps the best entertainment was the ever swirling school of bait fish darting around the tank, flashing and changing direction. There was no ocean sunfish, as promised in their advertising. (I was glad to see I'm not the only one that gets jammed up like that.)
The otter exhibit is big and two stories tall. But there were only two otters which significantly dampened the drama.
Monterey's signature tank is the three story tall kelp forest. That exhibit did not disappoint. They really maximize the tank with views from various related galleries. I was lucky enough to catch an interview with a diver as he fed the fish and spoke via wireless mike with a docent standing outside the tank, relaying questions from the audience.
Outside balconies along the back of the Aquarium open up to water views of Monterey Bay and the Pacific Ocean. Decks offer broad spaces for relaxation and tie Aquarium to bay and sea.
As morning neared noon the experience became less enjoyable. Obstreperous school children grew in number and volume.
I was ready to go anyway. Rain was forecast for the evening. It was cold along the coast. Luckily I was lured inland to Salinas to see John Steinbeck's old stomping grounds and museum. It was a worthwhile trip.
As you come up through the hills from Monterey, quite suddenly you drop down into the tabletop flat Salinas River Valley. I also picked up a few degrees temperature and even, gasp, some breaks of sunshine.
This is perhaps the richest soil on earth, millions of years of rich topsoil drained from the mountains on either side of the valley. The hills are now scrubby, not much grows on the depleted and arid slopes after the good soil ran off to the valley. Hills are deeply cut, like most of the California I have seen so far. But the bottom land, black, deep soils, mounded high and covered with plastic for strawberries or neatly plied into rows of various construction according to their crop, broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce. Amazing vistas stretched on either side as I cut across the valley, east to Salinas.
On the way across, I got a pleasant surprise as I passed by Laguna Seca racetrack. I did not stop. There was too much travel left for today and I already spent half my tourism time on the Aquarium, the second half was promised to John Steinbeck.
The museum was well done and included an agricultural museum and art gallery. There were some Steinbeck artifacts and an interesting history of this amazing farmland, and the immigrant workers who continue to come here and do the very difficult stoop work and hand operations required to grow high value crops.
An interesting adjunct was that Japanese farmers who first came here could not legally own land. So they leased the land until their children, born here and therefore automatic citizens, became of legal age and “purchased” the land on their parents behalf. I am not sure such a multi-generational plan would work with most Americans.
There has been an international parade of farm workers. Interesting that the great Mexican immigration was actually encouraged by the Federal Government to replace Japanese workers locked up by the government in interment camps during WWII. After the Mexicans, workers streamed in from other countries so poor as to make look good such backbreaking, hot, stoop work as is required by large scale vegetable growing. I think the museum said Philippinos are now the latest group.
From Salinas I stayed inland, riding Route 101 south. Lush lands stretched out before me and I tooled along an arrow-straight highway.
I could see the weather moving in from the seaside horizon. Riding south the mountains to my right were dark; angry, flat and heavy clouds boiled up and over them from the sea. The mountains to my right still glowed in soft patches of sun as puffy clouds cruised above them.
For a while there I was thinking I could make it back to Pismo Beach and that cool hotel hanging on the cliffs. But it was getting darker. I finally pulled off and switched my glasses from darks to clears. Well at least things appeared lighter with the clear glasses, but not off to the west. Now I could actually see rain falling on the hills on my right.
What was also clear was that the valley was ending. The two mountain ranges seemed to be converging ahead of me. As I got closer, the road began turning to work its way up, switchbacking through the hills. It also started raining, lightly, but rain brought cold.
I was starting to think that I wasn't needing to push too far today. Certainly it would be wetter and colder on the coast. As Route 101 exits this valley, that's where it heads.
A couple of billboards for Black Oak Best Western in Paso Robles convinced me and quite at the last minute I dove off the exit. I figured it just right. I mean I was no sooner parking the bike at hotel registration than the big rain drops began falling. (The hotel even had dedicated bike parking spots for registration.)
It rained, steady, well into the night.
Just around the corner I enjoyed dinner at Big Bubba's Bad BBQ. Actually, it was pretty good.
From my hotel room's information booklet, I learned Estrella War Bird Museum is nearby. A bit of Googling convinced me it is the way to start my day tomorrow.
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