Snyderville, Penn., December 18, 2011, Motorcycle Polar Bear Blog

Polar Bear Motorcycle Blog; Snydersville, Penn.; December 18

By: Chris Loynd

Winter finally found us. For the motorcycle polar bears it came a few days early. If it ever got above 30 degrees Sunday, such was but brief. My electrics were set on “nuclear” for most of the day. I broke out the snowmobile boots and doubled up on chemical heat packs under my feet.

Our ride over to Schoch's Harley-Davidson would likely have been warmer, at least for the start, if only we had left later. A mistake in the departure alert e-mail by CT Blogger Chris Loynd (yeah, it was all my fault) lit the fuse of confusion that set off a bomb of controversy. Fortunately when the dust settled we are all still pals, committed to good humor. No feelings were permanently damaged. Leave the Captain alone! I mean it now!

When I sent out the departure time alert this week I slavishly followed Captain's meticulous spreadsheet of rides and recommended departure times. Only it turns out he was not so meticulous. (I know! That's crazy talk! Can you believe it?)

Captain's sheet recommended leaving Stratford at 8:00 a.m. In the subject line of my e-mail I set 8 as launch time. But then, in a perhaps Freudian slip, in the text I stated 9.

Mac was the first to catch the confusion. He e-mailed all the regulars looking for clarity. That only kicked off a flurry of competing e-mails espousing the virtues of either 8 or 9. As the controversy reached a fever pitch one of our riders even broadcasted a call for calm. Can't we all just get along?

Unfortunately, I had long since walked away from the computer. And I am not one who has e-mail pushed to his cell phone. I know how. I just don't care.

I only became aware of the tempest in my teapot as I glanced at the e-mail trail before shutting down my computer just before bed.

As I read through various missives the most strident was a dire warning from Captain that if we left after 8 a.m., we were doomed to arrive past noon. Now I did not really care one way or the other. Unlike some of my com-padres, I like riding at night.

Figuring the Captain to be the most demandingly precise of us all, well aware of his flag etiquette and other sundown worries, I sent a correction e-mail confirming my original 8 a.m. departure time. I mean the Captain was once the navigator of a submarine. Certainly he was qualified to calculate the travel time of 150 motorcycle miles. I did not do the math myself.

We got to Schoch's Harley-Davidson almost exactly . . . an hour early.

We gassed the bikes and proudly took those hard-to-get, front-row parking spaces. We killed some time taking the group picture (the early morning light was dramatic) and discussing the virtues of MapQuest-suggested travel times.

John J. had a printed copy of Captain's Excel sheet and pointed out several other rather questionable entries, including one suggesting a 10 a.m. departure. (Mmmm, yes, that does not seem quite right. Guess I should double check.)

In a way it all worked out better than usual. There was no line for the bathroom. We got the very first pieces of cornbread. The soup and chili, courtesy of Mrs. Schoch, her family and her HOGs, was delicious and piping hot. And we had a relaxed time sitting around the table and catching up on the news of our various lives as we waited for sign-in to open.

The Connecticut Motorcycle Polar Bears are a diverse group. Some of us are wealthier than others. Some are working, some retired, some face uncertain futures. Some, like me for example, have gone through dramatic change in the time we've ridden together. I went from having my own business to working at The Maritime Aquarium at Norwalk, put one-and-a-half kids through college, lost some hair and gained some pounds.

It makes for interesting conversation. And we're all close enough in age to share some of the same perspectives. Any TV producers out there? We are ripe for a reality show! I guarantee we'd be better than that Hairy Bikers tripe.

Grumpy promised a ride home more interesting than the interstate. (Silly reader, segues are for kids.)

So we mounted up 'pert near noon. As we were preparing to pull out of our preferred, honestly-earned parking spaces a bunch of dweebs on metric hardleys started filling in a row of bikes ahead of us. Could they not see us getting ready to pull out? Certainly they did not respect our early arrival. They thoughtlessly blocked in several of us.

However there were more of us than of them. So those of us blocked in were able to exit – after a bit of backpedaling – through the gap left as our fellow riders moved out.

Soon after the Delaware Water Gap, Grumpy led us up New Jersey Route 94, headed north and east.

He found us an old timey tunnel to ride through, some quaint towns and scenic farmlands. In the town of Fredon an honest-to-gosh bald eagle lit from a limb and flew right over our line of bikes, not 30 feet above our heads.

At Franklin we transferred to NJ Route 23 for a slightly southerly and more directly easterly ride to connect with Interstate 287.

As we sipped our coffees at Chez GSP, to a man we approved of the non-Interstate part of our ride.

(We didn't get Token2's vote. He ditched us on the last coffee stop for a family obligation.)

It can be a drag just blasting up and down the New Jersey Garden State Parkway and Turnpike. For many of our Polar Bear rides the distances involved require the most direct route. Also, once the “S” word happens – no it's SNOW, not that other “S” word you were thinking – secondary roads can be less reliable, especially on motorcycles.

As it turned out, Grumpy's scenic ride added maybe 10 miles and half an hour to our return – and that includes U-turns. It was worth every mile and minute.

Maybe we have identified a new trend, although we will have to wait a while to exploit it.

Our next ride is a long one, Vineland, New Jersey. So there won't be as much time for fooling around. Although some years back Grumpy and his Tom Tom took the boys on a Dunkin' Donuts tour on the way down. And we have before cut directly east across the countryside to the GSP for our ride home, come to think of it.

Wearhouse Grill the week after offers an opportunity. It's nestled right in the country we passed this week, west of 23, south of 94. Maybe there's a CT Bear with some GPS skills who wants to lead? If so, and if your route requires a recalculation of our departure time, be sure to let me know well in advance. You are welcome to consult with the Captain in advance if you wish. But be forewarned, he gets up early and hates to ride late.

Meanwhile we have two weeks without riding, thanks to the foibles of the 2011-12 calendar. Christmas and New Years days both fall on Sundays. Not many of us have the chones to ask kitchen permission for rides on those days.

So until we meet again I offer best holiday wishes – for whatever holiday(s) you choose to celebrate – and a happy and prosperous New Year full of good weather and great rides. No future is ever certain, but all futures are filled with possibilities.

Ride safe, and warm,

Chris

Polar Bear Blog, Dec. 11, Howell, NJ

Polar Bear Blog, December 11, Howell NJ

By: Chris Loynd

Slightly bearish weather kept some of the cubs in their dens Sunday. It truly wasn't that cold.

When I woke up it was 20 degrees outside. Since we had a fairly close destination a 9:00 a.m. allowed temperatures to rise five degrees before I mounted the Harley. By the ride home it was a balmy 40-plus under a pale blue and cloudless sky.

We still had a sizable group of nine. Over the years, our Connecticut Polar Bears hardcore core has grown from three to 10 regulars. Bart missed Sunday. He was chaperoning a group at my workplace: The Maritime Aquarium at Norwalk.

Leaving Dunkin' Donuts we had six. For the second week in a row, Fonz missed us by minutes but chased us down on the Interstate. Turns out he had to pause for a discussion of marker light protocol with one of his law enforcement brethren in Bridgeport.

Pogy was waiting for us at his usual pick up point nearer his Norwalk home than our Stratford departure point. And finally we grabbed Token2 at the entrance to the Hutch.

Captain was leading this ride, which turned out to be fortuitous.

As we approached the entrance to the George Washington Bridge, New York's finest were just then striking flares and closing the on ramp.

Using his strong knowledge of the City that Never Sleeps, Captain took us on a tour of Harlem for a detour. We rode down 125^th Street and past the Apollo Theater. The holiday decorations were very nostalgic looking. I am thinking they were probably purchased back in the 1920s when Harlem was a cool place to be.

Folks on the street gawked at our impromptu parade.

Negotiating the city our group was a fluid string of magnetic buckyballs. (I threw in that reference for my sister Gretchen, who doesn't even read my blog.) We came apart and reformed multiple times as we worked our way through the traffic lights and dodged pedestrians and potholes. Captain paused just before taking to the West Side Highway to allow our formation to rebuild.

Then as we formed up in a lane to turn onto 42^nd Street, a BMW tried to cut us in half. I held him back to let the other bikes in ahead of me. We were slippery and binding.

After his tour of Harlem, I was a little disappointed Captain did not also take us through Times Square. We were, after all, on 42^nd Street, if only for a few blocks.

We came apart again just a few blocks later making the turn for the Lincoln Tunnel.

New Yorkers do not yield. Those Grinches respected our line of bikes not at all, not one little bit, cutting in and cutting off, because their hearts are two sizes too small. Sing along with me . . . I looooove New York . . . .

Suddenly I found myself lead of three bikes riding through the Lincoln Tunnel. My GPS went dark about two-thirds of the way through. I guess it didn't like losing its grasp upon the satellites. As we exited the tunnel, I was trying to negotiate the cagers, reboot the Garmin, read the traffic signs and guess which choice led to the turnpike.

As we crested a small hill I looked far to the horizon and what to my wandering eyes should appear but the twinkling running lights of six tiny, scratch that, six big, motorcycles, well except for Token2 who was on his little BMW with the ice cream cases bolted to the tail.

We stragglers caught the main body just as we approached the New Jersey Turnpike. After that the ride was easier.

With all the detours we still arrived pert near 11:30. Even so the lot was full and the restaurant bulging. A few of us tried to cobble together a few tables and booths around the bar. Little did we know our guys found the back-back room. That's right. Behind the back room the cabin has a back room. And there we found a table for the nine of us.

Lunch was good. Grumpy could not get pickles on his cheeseburger. But once we got through that crisis, things settled down nicely.

Speaking of pickles, Pogy continued his largesse, this time producing a jar of giant pickles for the Grumpster. Wild speculation surrounded the possible origin of the vinegar-bathed cukes. There was some mention of kimchee. We'll have to get a report from Grumpy on how they tasted.

Our ride home was uneventful. There were a couple times when our formation had to flow through toll booths and reform. Here and there a cager threatened. But that is part of Polar Bearing. See you next week.

Polar Bear Blog Hatfield, Penn., Dec. 4

Polar Bear Blog Hatfield, Penn., Dec. 4

By: Chris Loynd

Fortunately, I thought to put this week's destination address into my GPS just minutes before I headed over to meet the guys at the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford.

My morning had a monkey thrown into its wrench. If you are a faithful blog reader, you may recall I purchased a new Gerbing heated jacket liner a few weeks back. The old one was not heating the gloves. Well I have not yet gotten around to sending out the old liner to be repaired. Meanwhile my long-suffering wife got tired of seeing it thrown over a chair and hung it up for me . . . along with the rest of my motorcycle gear. Sunday morning I could not tell which was the new, or the old, jacket liner.

Figuring it out had me pressed for time, and with no time to spare, I thought of skipping the GPS. At the last minute, I figured I might as well put in the address, just in case I got lost or something.

Turned out I was leading this ride.

I guess they took a vote at the Dunkin' before I arrived, just two minutes before departure time, and I was elected in absentia . Since I knew the address was plugged into my GPS, I said, “Sure! No problem!” I had only glanced at a map days earlier, and that vaguely.

Grumpy was going to sweep. He pulled up and shouted something about 287, 87 and, dang, what was that last number?

Well I figured I would just follow the GPS.

I knew better to ignore Mr. Garmen when he tried to send me across the George Washington Bridge. Once we were firmly on our way to the Tappan Zee the miniature, satellite-enabled computer settled down . . . for a little while.

It started acting up again as we cruised on out I-78. Darn if I could remember that last route number Grumpy had given me. I kept ignoring the GPS' exhortations and stuck to the Interstate, hoping that at some point the computer would pop up a familiar number.

Fortunately for me, Grumpy had an unfortunate equipment problem. He zoomed up from the back of the pack to lead all of us into a highway rest stop. There he zip tied his shifter linkage back together. It had lost a joint or something. I'm no mechanic.

As we were getting ready to go I nonchalantly fished for that missing route number. “Uh, yeah, we're going up here to, uh . . .,” I said. “Route 309,” Grumpy finished my sentence. “Yeah, that's right,” I offered. “Exit uh . . .” “I don't know,” Grumpy said.

No problem! I'm back in control and nobody knows. I'll just keep my eyes peeled for the exit.

After a little while my GPS gave up on all other options and served up “Route 309, Exit 60A.”

We left the rest stop, shifter repaired, riders relieved (no facilities but an accommodating tree), in a different order of bikes than we had been riding. Grumpy was now my wing man, replacing Jim O, a new Polar Cub who joined us for the first time Sunday.

By the way, Jim O was a good wing man. He rode so tight to me I could usually feel him more than see him. But he's an experienced rider and a MSF instructor. So I was comfortable with him at my shoulder.

I guess Fonz, arriving just a few moments AFTER the last possible moment, had pulled a u-turn and taken the sweep away from Grumpy. Freed of his sweep duties, Grumpy moved up with me for the rest of the ride.

So as we approached Montgomeryville Cycle Center, my GPS was now simpatico with the route I'd forced upon it. Only I remember the last time I led this ride, the destination appeared on the opposite side of the road from what I expected. I shot past the dealership, Russ sticking faithfully by my side (another of the great wing men), as the rest of our guys hit the binders hard and made the dealership. Russ and I eventually found a u-turn after what seemed like 15 miles.

Embarrassment being a powerful teacher, I distrusted my GPS as we approached the Cycle Center, still hidden behind a ridge, and put on my right blinker. Grumpy immediately put on his LEFT blinker and threw in a hand signal in case I didn't catch his drift. I quickly changed signals and cut left into the merge lane for Montgomeryville Cycle Center.

At lunch I 'fessed up to the miscue. Not that a confession was required, though they say it is good for the soul. Everybody behind me saw the blinker mistake.

After gassing up for the ride home, my GPS was again acting up, wanting to send me down some country road. I again consulted Grumpy. He started offering alternate ways to get to Route 309 to go home the way we came.

I expressed my worries to Grumpy. I was concerned about taking some long-about detour with a line of bikes behind me. I was afraid to plunge into unknown territory with these guys strung along the highway behind me. It's one thing to make a u-turn at a dead end road by yourself. It's quite another with a eight to a dozen bikes on behind.

And what if it took a lot longer to get home? Some of our guys don't like to ride in the dark. I jokingly asked the Captain if he was flying the colors. He said now, he held them in case we were late and that morning ran a Navy ensign up the pole instead.

Seeing, but not sharing, my consternation, Grumpy came up with one of his typical responses, “F**k 'em. Follow your GPS. See what happens.”

I took courage in Grumpy's show of confidence and off we went, turn-by-turn, with nary a sense of the map in my head.

My Garmin took us on a beautiful ride down winding country roads. Fields stretched beyond our site. Horses and cattle dotted the landscape. We rode through quaint small towns with small brick buildings build right to the road and with 1950s style Christmas garlands strung between light poles, across the road over our heads. We even scored a covered bridge.

Cars came toward us with freshly cut evergreens bound to their roofs. Some of our way tightened down to mere country lanes with no lines painted on the road. We crossed the Delaware River from Pennsylvania to New Jersey on a very narrow two-lane, steel grid decked bridge, speed limit 15 mph.

Like Token a few weeks before, I even ran into a closed road detour. Recalculating!

And it turned out my Garmin did not lie. We left the gas station after a sizable group of Jersey Bears. On I-78 we saw them again. They passed us. We were ahead of them. We had in fact taken the faster route going cross country.

Sometimes you just have to say, “F**k 'em. Which is what I did when I stuck in the left lane up the Merritt Parkway with our long line of bikes.

It was a great ride, well led, with a little help from my friends.

Polar Bear Blog Sugar Loaf, N.Y. Nov. 20

By: Chris Loynd

When I saw Polar Bear Grand Poohbah Bob Hartpence in very nearby Sugar Loaf' N.Y., he joked that maybe this ride wasn't even worth the Connecticut bears getting out of bed. I told him we were experiencing Polar Bearing as our New Jersey brethren do.

This Sunday's destination was so close we only earned a single mileage point. Heck, we usually achieve one point just getting out of state.

A few of our members flirted, albeit briefly, with a point stretch. We even racked up a few extra miles thanks to a closed road around which Token, our ride leader, had to detour.

Grumpy and Mac, start deeper in Connecticut than most of us. Those two did pick up the extra point. But we dissuaded the others with peer pressure. Most of us accurately recorded between 160 and 180 roundtrip miles.

Token lives close to this Sunday's destination and so promised us a scenic ride. He led us over parkways and through state parks. The afore mentioned closed road caused him a bit of consternation, most dramatically represented with not one but two circuits of a traffic roundabout.

Slavish following of his GPS also caused him to head back into town after a Dolly-mandated early gas stop. We dutifully followed Token through every U-turn.

The only time in the ride where we did break formation on Sunday was in the Barn Sider Tavern parking lot. Even though we arrived before 11:30 sign-in, the lot was already full. Token threaded his way back around to the street and found a good spot we could all share. Being his wingman, I was right there with him. But when we went to back our bikes into our spots we discovered only Token and I remained.

The rest of our guys decided to block in some other bikes in the parking lot. The bike-bound riders soon saw the Connecticut plates and coming into the restaurant went straight to the Captain. It's the hat, John. The offenders went back outside to move their bikes, releasing the other riders.

To his credit, Token did find plenty of twisties for us to ride. His was a welcome respite from our typical Interstate expressway dominated Polar Bear motorcycling.

Unfortunately the distances we typically travel, and the Captain's flag, generally mandate faster and more direct routes than the luxury we rode Sunday.

The Captain has a new American flag flying on a pole at his house and was very concerned about striking his colors before sunset. A light fixture is on order and hopefully arrives and is installed before Montgomeryville. There's no way we get back from there before sundown.

Our Connecticut Polar Bear ranks continue to swell. We picked up two new riders on this trip.

Dolly is Fonz's wife. Not exactly new to the Polar Bears, she rode with us as a passenger last year on the back of Fonz's Harley. Sunday she was at the helm of her Honda Shadow.

Fonz had bought Dolly one of this season's spiffy new red Polar Bear Grand Tour shirts. But he said she could not wear it until she actually rode with the Bears.

Fortunately Sunday's ride was not at all bearish. With our shortest distance of the season and temperatures nearing 60, it was a perfect ride for cubs.

I think Dolly found it to be quite enough. At our end of day coffee stop Dolly asked me, "What does it mean when you start seeing things?"

"Seeing what?" I asked.

"You know, like two roads," she replied.

"I think it means you drop out of the group," I said. Geeze, she rode behind me most of the day. I kept a keen eye on my rearview mirrors the rest of the ride.

Bill also joined us Sunday. He has a New Jersey Polar Bear friend but lives in Ridgefield. Perusing the Polar Bear Grand Tour site, www.PolarBearGrandTour.com, Bill found the Connecticut contingent's blog on the Grand Tour's "Members' Homepages" page and contacted me.

We liked Bill almost immediately, well right after lunch for sure. Bill picked up the whole lunch tab, for all of us! I sought him out later and assured him there are no initiation rites, nor secret conclave votes, to be a member of the Connecticut Bears. You pretty much need only to show up on a motorcycle. Buying lunch for everyone is certainly not a requirement.

Oh, if you desire the coveted Connecticut patch, you must firsf earn the Grand Tour patch. But so far we have rejected no one from just tagging along on our rides.

There is also the Connecticut Polar Bear pledge. And I forgot to administer it to Dolly or Bill. It's very simple, raise your right hand and repeat after me, "I am responsible for my own safety."

That's it!

Sort of like parachuting, the real challenge is not in getting someone to join us for the first ride; we won't really know if Dolly or Bill likes us until she or he show up for a second ride.

Meanwhile Dolly and Bill are immortalized in the Polar Bear Motorcycle Blog. And not everyone can say that.

Old Bridge, NJ, Nov. 13, 2011, Motorcycle Polar Bears Blog

By: Chris Loynd

Ahhh, the joys of group riding. Riding with a big group of fellow motorcycles has its appeal, and its foibles.

Last Sunday we did group riding by the Pirate Code.

The Connecticut Polar Bears have had discussions over the years about how many bikes we should have in a line before we divide the riders into two or more independent groups. Some say the threshold is six bikes, some say eight or even 10. I'm pretty sure 12 is too many.

Nevertheless, Sunday's unseasonably warm weather and reasonably close destination turned out the Polar Cubs who engorged our group.

We started out with a threshold nine bikes. Then as we were riding along the Fonz suddenly appeared, pushing us to an upper limit 10. Somewhere before we hit I-287 Jim materialized, as he is wont to do, and we were 11. Token was waiting for us at his usual pickup point and that made it a dozen.

Twelve can be tough to manage. It is a long line of bikes. Leading a group that big is sort of like managing a train. That many bikes stretches the length of maybe three or four tractor-trailer trucks.

Before we even got to Token our leader inadvertently broke the group by merging in front of a slower car. Our sweep rider came up to add to the confusion. Then one of our more expert riders decided to cut off the cops who were creating the traffic jam in the first place, riding up in the unoccupied lane next to our group to form up again in front of the slower car.

When I saw him come up, he was wearing a different jacket than usual. I did not recognize him. My first thought was, "Who is this jerk?" Boy was I surprised when our group reformed and I got close enough to read his license plate. (I won't mention any names but later Fonz told me he was surprised the cops didn't pull him over.)

And no sooner did we assimilate Token and head for the Hutch than a couple of cars once again cut into our line as we went to merge onto the parkway.

They created a pretty big gap. Once they cleared out of our path our ride leader and just two other bikes were a spec on the horizon and fading fast.

The cars cut me off so I was de facto lead for the moment. So I slowed a bit to get the rest of us to form up, and then tried to catch the leader.

He didn't make it easy.

Once I got the rest of us within striking distance, and I wanted to get us all together before the move onto the next expressway, I zoomed ahead and gestured to the leader to slow down -- even just a little -- so the rest of us could catch him.

Of course with full face helmets at highway speed communications options are limited. I got a puzzled look from our leader, but while he was puzzling he did back off his throttle just enough for the rest of the group to gather -- once again -- behind him.

I fell into line and we soon transitioned to the next mix master, the merge onto the GW Bridge.

Once we reached the order and regularity of the New Jersey Turnpike, things settled down. We grabbed our own lane and owned it.

Now I have assiduously avoided mentioning any names. And later in the day John Jackson asserted that this blog and the ribbing from fellow Bears may be the reason we have a hard time finding ride leaders.

Wait, we have a hard time finding ride leaders? Grumpy will lead any ride any time. Oh, he grouses about always having to lead. But he's just living up to his nickname.

The Captain will volunteer to lead any ride. But do you really want him to?

I've led my share. And reviewing past blog posts I see that I always lead a picture perfect ride.

When we finally got down to Old Bridge and got our helmets off, I understood the morning's problem even better. John J. revealed that his Harley mirrors only reach two bikes behind him. So he really could not see that he had no more that two followers  as he blasted down the Hutchinson River Parkway.

And the Pirate Code? Certainly you remember, "Them that falls behind is left behind."

So if you wish to join us on a ride next Sunday, and you have moderately good riding skills and a decent GPS in case we lose you, you are welcome to join the Connecticut Polar Bears. If you have a thick enough skin we may even let you lead.

Lewes, Delaware, November 6, 2011, Motorcycle Polar Bear Blog

By: Chris Loynd

Lewes, Delaware, is a long way from Stratford, Connecticut, especially on a motorcycle, even in summer, I don't care who you are. What a wacky ride. It's basically a 12-hour day for us, 10 of those in the saddle. It's like 270 miles one-way. It's a good touring day. And in the quest for the coveted Polar Bear patch, this ride takes our Connecticut bears a long way. There are not many 7 pointers in the schedule.

If you ride the first two rides of the season from Connecticut, you are 'pert near halfway to the 30 points needed to qualify.

Or if you are like the Captain, you will have donated blood  in New Jersey, traveling there and back on your motorcycle, four times before the season even begins, for extra points,. Plus you will have attended every extra point ride Bob Hartpence offers. So John K. likely crossed the 30-point threshold on this ride.

While I am not as crazy about points as some of my compadres, I cannot deny the prize was nestled in the back of my mind as I contemplated going or not.

Several of us came off a tough week to ride this Sunday.

I was on antibiotics, but feeling much better. A simple cold morphed into a nasty sinus infection the week before our Lewes ride. On Thursday the sinus pain was so bad it made my teeth hurt. But the miracle of fighting fungi had me feeling chipper and barley sniffling and no longer contagious by the weekend.

Our northernmost CT bears, Bart and Token2 were snowed under from the freak Nor'easter mentioned in last week's Cape May blog.

As it turned out, Bart needed only to dig out his driveway. His was a lucky oasis of electricity in an otherwise dark grid. He even rode up to the Dunkin' to start out with us Sunday.

Token2 was not so lucky. He was without power the whole week, sending furtive e-mails to fellow riders when he could from random cafe wifi hot spots. But the juice came back on Saturday night in his house. And I guess John felt he had spent more than enough quality time with his wife Lynn sitting in the dark together and so he took off to ride with us Sunday.

Mac was undeterred even by the lack of a motorcycle. He followed us down and back in his car. His bike's in the shop. All the same, he said he wanted to sign in and get the season started. Unlike us, Mac earned just one point for bringing his car.

Except for a gravel parking lot, and a lot of that gravel fresh and deep, Irish Eyes Pub is a fine destination.

The food was great. All the dining room tables were filled by the time we arrived. So we pushed together the bar tables and high stools and perched together like a flock of birds.

Token2 was sitting next to me on one side of the table. Being more toward the center, he heard more of the conversations at both end of the table than I could. At one point he turned to me and said, "You know you're riding with old guys when they are comparing PSA scores."

Still, there are a few perquisites to being an old guy. They don't always balance out the detriments. But young guys can miss a lot due to lack of seasoning. More on that later.

Pogy entertained us with his long awaited comeback to Token. Apparently they made a bet or something LAST season and Pogy owed Token a dollar. Well Pogy carried that dollar around the world and waited all summer to make a special presentation of it to Token last Sunday. Oh the places that dollar has been! And the things that dollar has seen!

These two guys are our worldly ones, both having jobs that take them far and wide. Token is a British expat and world traveler. Pogy is a first generation AmerHungarian working for a worldwide helicopter company. Me, I've been to Canada . . . several times.

Back in Delaware, I decided that while it certainly is wonderful that Gerbing Co. has a lifetime warranty on their electric motorcycle clothing, it is not much help when you have to send your stuff out for repair during winter riding season. I mean, when else are you going to discover that your jacket liner is no longer getting power to your gloves?

So I bit the bullet and bought yet another liner. This way I can ride warm while my old liner makes its way to Tumwater, Washington, state for chrissakes, for repairs. (At least my liner won't have traveled as far as Token's dollar.)

The replacement liner was an almost $200 investment. But I like to ride in winter and I hate to be cold.

Grumpy started busting my chops about being a "rich" guy. I don't think he's seen my house. And I gave him as much back. I'll bet he makes as much or more than I. And I told him so.

For one thing, Johnny B. has a gigantic diesel, scratch that, TURBO DIESEL truck with dual gas tanks, dual tires, dual other stuff, you get the idea. I'll bet his truck costs more than a gaggle of Hyundais like I drive, the Accent, bottom of the line, 2005. (Hey I got a kid in college and a Harley. We gotta cut corners somewhere.)

Plus, Grumpy is supporting a colony of folks at his house. The way he tells it he has relatives coming from far and wide to reside under his roof.

The coup d'etat came when, as we're getting dressed out in the parking lot, Grumpy reveals that he, too, just bought a new liner. "It was only like two hundred bucks," he grinned.

As I started my bike, it didn't. Boy, oh boy, that is a sinking feeling. Hoping against hope, I turned the switch off and back on again. This time it started.

But I soon discovered I had no reading on the speedometer. And as I rode back toward Connecticut, it soon became clear I had no brake lights or turn signals.

A dark cloud of despair filled my helmet.

But I am an old guy, well at least an older guy. And as I mentioned earlier, we have a few advantages.

One of these is experience.

As I rode along, worried for my bike's failure at any moment and so far from home, my brain polled its database. A faint memory clicked into place. And as I rolled it around and examined it, the memory grew stronger and more appropriate.

Yes, it was years ago. Same thing. No speedometer. Riding by myself up in Massachusettss I think. I recall the bike ran okay, all the way home in fact. Then they replaced my ignition switch.

I felt a little better. Despair faded into mere dread.

When we made our last gas stop on the Garden State Parkway, it was getting pretty dark. I enlisted the help of my fellow riders. Fonz, who was behind me, was warned to watch out for my lack of brake lights. "If you feel a little bump, it's just me," he assured me. Captain said he would follow me all the way home acting as surrogate brake lights and turn signals.

Fortunately the bike started right up. And then I tried turning the ignition switch just a little toward the "off" position. Instantly the speedometer lit up. I checked the turn signals. Yup, they're back, brake lights too.

Dread was shredded by the bright light of knowledge. And I rode comfortably home.

Remembering the previous ignition switch symptoms reminded me of a conversation I had just had that week with my son Trever. He was agonizing over a problem with his Camaro. Just could not get it to run right after he installed a new distributor. It was backfiring through the carb.

Trever works as a mechanic. And apparently he mentioned the trouble to his fellow mechanics. One of the more experienced guys suggested a very simple solution. Trever came home that night, tried it, and the Camaro purred. "How the heck would that old guy know to try that?" Trever asked me. "I just smiled and said there are a few, just a few, advantages to being an old guy."

Cape May, Oct. 30, 2011 Motorcycle Polar Bear Blog

By: Chris Loynd


You know how sometimes in winter you are driving along in a clean car, surrounded by clean cars and then you see a car so crudded up with salt and junk you know it must be from up north and sure enough the license plate reads, "Maine" or "Vermont"?
We were those guys Sunday.
What is it about the Cape May Polar Bear ride and Nor'Easters?

A doozy came through Saturday. And while along the coast we only got a few inches, our friends in northern Connecticut got up to 18 inches.

New Jersey got a dusting to mostly just rain.


When we got to Cape May we were surrounded by shiny, clean bikes. We held our heads a little higher as we parked our crudbikes.


I felt like a true Polar Bear. In late August, just before Hurricane Irene, I put my bike in for an engine remanufacturing.
It had 137,000 miles and I figured I didn't want any troubles during Polar Bear season.
When I called Marcel, the service manager at Brothers Harley-Davidson he asked, "Are you sure you don't want to keep it a little longer to enjoy the riding weather?"
"No! I got to get it ready for Polar Bear season. So I need it by the end of September to get my break-in miles done," I replied.

"You have this riding season thing upside down," Marcel laughed.


I didn't even need to shovel my driveway Sunday. Fonz did a bit. Grumpy has a ski slope and had to clear it. Then he dropped the bike in an icy Ansonia intersection on his way to meet us at Dunkin' Donuts. He, and his ride, were fine and he made it to Cape May and back.

Grumpy said in his e-mail the week after the ride that he was a bit sore.

Our northern pals Token and Bart were completely snow bound. They may also still be without electricity. Because the snow was wet and heavy and trees still had all their leaves, the damage to power lines here was worse than with hurricane Irene.

Some areas of Connecticut are without power still. The utility is promising 99 percent restoration by end of day Sunday, more than a week after the storm.


Fortunately, even with our early start the temperature was above freezing. Unfortunately, they had been spraying salt on the roads all Saturday and into Sunday morning.

Still, our morning ride was not so great. In fact there was a time there when I was entertaining thoughts of turning around.

I mean, I am out here to have fun. And with the spray and wet roads, with strong and gusty winds, with the slabs of snow blowing off roofs of lazy car drivers, with a few sphincter moments of less than optimal traction, it was becoming a chore.

We figured to keep within the warm embrace of Long Island Sound. So I opted to follow I-95 all the way to the George Washington Bridge.


Only the New York State City Police had other ideas.

The Cross Bronx Expressway was closed, shut down. Fortunately one of NYC's Finest was standing outside his car and gave us easy directions to the bridge.

Traffic remained heavy until we got well south on the Garden State Parkway.

Polar Bear Grand Poohbah Bob Hartpence sent out an e-mail on Saturday to ensure all Bears that Sunday's ride was a go. He said the roads were dry.

We did not find those dry roads until we were about halfway down to Cape May.


Fortunately, roads were dry for the whole ride home. And the sun was shining. It even warmed up a bit.

But the long ride meant a sunrise start and a finish in the dark.

I led the ride because I wanted to vary my speed a bit. I had 'pert near a thousand miles on the new motor. Still, I didn't want to crank it the whole way to Cape May.

It worked out just fine. The ride down was so crappy, I kept speeds below the posted limits.


For the first time I can remember, Cape May sign-in was a breeze. No waiting.


We bought our "this season" shirts, made our acquaintances, I teased Bob about his "dry roads" e-mail and we were off.

Over brunch, some had breakfast, some chose lunch, we caught up with riding buddies. It hardly seems seven months have passed.

With a very demanding workload this year, I will definitely do more riding in winter than I did all summer.

Hopefully the weather will be kind. But it is winter. And we start from New England. There are no guarantees.

Polar Bear Blog New Brunswick, NJ; Jan. 23, 2011

Polar Bear, New Brunswick, NJ; January 23 2011

By: Chris Loynd

single digit temperatures to start, teens to finish

Wow it was cold. I mean nasty cold. Every extra layer cold. At least, that's what I thought.

I put on two sets of silk long johns, an extra sweatshirt and my windproof balaclava. In my boots I put not one, not two, but three warmer packs per foot.

When I queried my fellow bears about the special preparations they made for the coldest ride of the season they responded, to a man, none! Geeze! Guess I'm a wimp.

I've always said that I don't like to be cold. That may seem counter intuitive to riding a motorcycle in winter. But with my extra layers and heat packs and electric jacket and gloves, I was toasty warm all day. Still, I was glad for the extra layers.

My EMS balaclava is almost too warm. It's made with wind-stopper fleece. Under my helmet, it keeps my noggin well insulated. On anything but the coldest days, it induces sweat.

Now that we are into mid-season Polar Bear riding, it seems road conditions are getting worse. Potholes are appearing everywhere. I clipped a nasty one at the merge onto the New Jersey Turnpike. When we discussed it a lunch, we were thinking this is perhaps the same hole that claimed Token's tire last season. Fortunately my big Dunlops held.

I rode down into another pothole on the local road as we neared our destination. As I watched it swallow my tire, I could see the pavement's gravel underlayment, then an old cobblestone base, next an alluvial layer. I thought, oh schist! Finally my tire rode past some dinosaur bones and into a bit of lava in the very bottom before we started to climb the other side of the pothole.

Reacting in time, I stood up on the floorboards to allow the bike to pivot beneath me as my suspension attempted to compensate for the sudden drop in elevation. Fortunately, the big springer front end compressed and rebounded. I love this bike!

At Sir John's I asked Mr. “No Wet,” Ken Andrejewski about a flagstaff for my bike. His name refers to nothing sexual. It is instead a special process for cleaning motorcycles without water.

I have one of the older Polar Bear pennants that is larger than the small ones that fit on my compatriots' whip antennas. (That's fine 'cause my bike has no whip antennas.) In previous years I flew it from my chrome luggage rack from a “farmerized” Harley flag pole meant for tour pack attachment. (Ask Russ for the definition of "farmerized.")

Lacking a tour pack, I cut the base of the nylon pole down to fit between my luggage rack's rails with a hack saw and very poor technique. Then I zip tied the crap out of it to get it to hold onto the rails at speed.

When I saw Ken's flag poles actually meant for mounting on the round stock rails of any luggage rack via a very clean looking recessed set screw, I was ready for an upgrade. He asked me the diameter of my rails, half or quarter inch or some number of eighth inches. What do I know from diameter or how to measure it? Fortunately my rack is detachable. I told Ken to wait one minute.

I ran outside, popped the rack from its mounts, and brought it into Ken, striking a deal on a new flag pole -- installed. He gladly complied. It looks like it was made for the bike. I won't miss the zip ties.

We teased Jim about not having a date for this ride. Last year he rode with us to Sir John's, but then never showed for the ride home. It turned out a lady friend made him a better offer.

We had a smaller than usual group this ride. As stated in last week's blog, many of our Connecticut bears are driveway challenged. We may not see Bart until spring thaw!

Polar Bear Lake Hoptacong, NJ, Jan. 16, 2011

Polar Bear, Lake Hopatcong, NJ; January 16, 2011

By: Chris Loynd

28 degrees F. to start, hovered around freezing mark for much of the day in mostly bright sun

This Sunday was about driveways and delays. It had been a long time for me since I had been on my motorcycle. I was having withdrawal symptoms.

In August of 2002, I got a PR opportunity for my client Bridgeport Harley-Davidson. Bridgeport H-D was a top 10 percent Harley dealer back then (not so much now, after a change in management the business declared bankruptcy). Joe Zibbel, a reporter from “The Business Times” asked a seemingly simple question, “What is it about riding a Harley-Davidson that makes it so special?”

Since I had only been riding since May, I turned to General Manager Domenic Maturo, who had been riding Harleys most of his life. His answer was that you just had to ride a Harley to understand the appeal. Joe was baffled, expressed disappointment.

As expressed in his article, Joe's takeaway was this: “The responses were somewhat inconclusive. 'It's difficult to put into words.' 'You'd have to get on a bike, take a ride on the highway and experience it for yourself' (they said).”

Joe was working on a story about the Motor Company's upcoming 100th anniversary. You can read it here: http://www.allbusiness.com/marketing-advertising/925451-1.html

Me, I knew why I wanted to ride. It was “Then Came Bronson.” Just 26 episodes aired on NBC-TV September 1969 through April 1970. There was that premise, that promise, expressed in the theme song, “gonna live life my way.” I was 13 years old. Ah, those formative years.

It took me 33 years to get on a bike. This past summer, I took a four week, 7,500 mile ride out to Arizona and back. It was, is, everything I wanted. But I still can't fully explain the appeal.

I can feel it. I just find it difficult to put into words. I don't apologize for that.

Back when Joe asked his question, I did not understand riding like I do now. If I did, I would have had a better answer for him. I would have asked him to explain what it was about music that made it so special, or sex, or romance, or sports or anything else you love to do.

I think I would have asked Joe if he could explain what it is about writing that makes it so special for him.

From when I started riding in May of 2002 until today, I don't think more than eight contiguous weeks have gone by that I did not get out for a ride of some sort.

Because riding is so special to me, I go into “withdrawal” when I can't ride. I even dream of riding.

That's what attracted me to the Polar Bear Grand Tour in the first place. It offered an excuse and thereby an opportunity, to ride all year round.

I honestly never expected the camaraderie and fun that developed as other riders joined me, and some, like Captain, surpassed me. Some of my best rides of the year now happen on days when most motorcyclists have their bikes in deep storage.

Russ, remember that first Polar Bear year when you had suspended your bike insurance for the winter?

Still, I cannot ride in snow. The holiday calendar and not one, but two, blizzards kept my big girl garaged since December 19. I was going into withdrawal, thumbing through my cycle magazines and accessory catalogs, looking at old photos and maps. But just like porn, these activities only sharpened my desire for the real thing.

A holiday blizzard was followed by another storm bringing yet another foot-and-a-half of snow. Snow was followed by bitter cold. Sunny days allowed for some melting, but generally only when supported by salt or similar chemicals.

Those of the Connecticut Polar Bears that live in deeper country find their motorcycles trapped in their garages. Some made extraordinary efforts to get their bikes out. Others had it easier.
My wife and kids know that my major snow shoveling objective is always getting my bike out for the upcoming Sunday. Fortunately, our narrow driveway means the cars create two tracks down the edges. That leaves the center clear of packed snow or icy spots.

So last Sunday I was very ready to ride. And the roads were clear. There was a mostly clear strip down the center of my driveway.

Some of our regulars were not so fortunate in their driveways. Bart lives in the boonies. His driveway alone is quarter-mile challenge. Then the secondary roads can be tough in his neck of the woods. John J. claimed the same secondary roads issue, but he lives in Milford for heavens sake. Maybe he really just wanted to see the Patriots lose their postseason bid as it actually happened.

Sunday was a gorgeous day for a winter ride. The temperature was cool, but sun made it feel warmer. The distance to our destination was just a bit more than 100 miles. The Interstate highways were dry and clear.

It felt great to be back on the bike. I was so eager I shocked my compatriots by showing up 20 minutes ahead of our departure time. I had to run into the Dunkin' right away to tell them not to choke down their coffees or rush their doughnuts. I was afraid my presence would make them think the time was later than they thought.

Three bikes were in the parking lot when I arrived: Captain, Grumpy and Jim. As we were suiting up, Fonz rode in. On the way down we picked up Pogy at the Darien rest stop.

Fortunately he was able to find his way there. (More on that later.)

Token2 was waiting for us at the Tappan Zee Bridge to make us seven for the ride.

Maybe the other guys were feeling the same cabin fever. They all remarked on what a great day it was for a motorcycle ride.

Fortunately Grumpy was leading, because there is a set of quick, right-angle turns that we have missed in year's past. As I watched it unfold on my GPS, I would not have made sense of it in time to make the turn, were I leading. But Grumpy did it from memory and smoothly. All I had to do was not run into Jim's bike in front of mine.

The Wearhouse Grill (sic) treated us well. A banner out front declared us welcome and a special menu was prepared for the Bears.

Pogy mentioned that we missed a good spread at the Five Points the week before.

We had our usual raucous lunchtime conversation. Captain is looking for a flex-fuel Ford. He's making practical application of his convictions. Ford is the one American car company that did not take government bailout funds. I applaud John for putting his money where his heart is.

I had to rib Pogy a bit about his GPS challenges. He called me the day before, once again expressing dismay at the Grand Tour's directions. Admittedly, I did not get it the first time around. When I entered the destination as being on “Route” 181, my Garmin couldn't find it. But then I remembered the foible of Garmin being picky about whether something is a Route or Highway. When I asked it to find simply “181,” it did just fine and assigned the designation of “Hwy.”

Pogy had called a couple times before with similar issues. And if you read his blog account from last week, you know he ran Captain into a cornfield, following his GPS.

Pogy even sprang for the Garmin upgrade, downloading it before last Sunday's ride. Now, he says the Garmin is displaying instructions in English and Korean. I wonder if the voice prompts are from that Eastern European guy “Peggy” from the Discover Card TV commercial?

When the discussion came up, Token2 was kind enough to remind us all that I am no genius of GPS myself.

I admitted to the group that my secret was to first look at a map, a rendering of the actual land route, and then consult my satellite receiver. In fact, on my misled Montgomeryville ride, I clearly knew where I wanted to go, could see a picture of the map in my mind. I just could not get my GPS to take me there.

Fortunately Grumpy and his GPS and memory got us there and back. And I got my riding “fix.” Here's hoping next Sunday gets us out again.