Polar Bear Blog, February 26, 2012,
Highlands, NJ.
By: Chris Loynd
Often I tease my fellow riders,
boasting that my position as blog author makes me final arbiter of
truth for our Sunday rides as reported here. But this one I have to
own. This one I have to admit to. It was too egregious. There were
too many witnesses. Physical evidence remains.
The worst led ride in Polar Bear
history found me at the front, in charge, at least until the mutiny
occurred.
Sunday's debacle was not my intention.
It all seemed so easy on Google Maps.
Our Polar Bear rides are, by necessity,
heavily dependent upon the New Jersey Turnpike and Garden State
Parkway. When I consulted Google Maps for our route to Highlands,
N.J., it offered three alternatives. One was way too familiar: down
I-95, over the GW Bridge, down the Turnpike. The other was just as
well worn: Tappan Zee to GSP. Then there was a third option.
So I thought to myself, “Hey! This is
just 10 minutes longer. And it is the road less traveled – by us at
least. It might be fun to take I-278 west down through Queens and
Brooklyn, over the very cool Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and across
Staten Island and then down Route 9. We would never even touch the
Turnpike or Parkway! And how bad can the traffic be on a Sunday
morning?”
I successfully navigated my Garmin
software to map out the route, complete with way points. I then
transferred it to my sophisticated, on-board, computer, global
positioning, satellite receiver.
As it turned out, I should have used
the wax pencil on my mirrors.
Any confidence I have built for my GPS
over the past two years was shattered in a single Sunday. There is no
longer any trust between us.
At first we had a grand time. Garmin
and I were simpatico. I was really enjoying the urban twisties as the
Hutchinson River Parkway became even more serpentine south of the GW
Bridge. All too soon we were at the Whitestone Bridge. And there is
started.
They have those damn toll gates. And it
turned out that Pogy carries his EZ Pass mounted to the inside lid of
his saddlebag. So when it did not read, there was a substantial time
loss as he dismounted, opened the bag, handed the transponder to a
disapproving toll clerk, remounted . . . well you get the idea. Our
group came apart.
Exiting the bridge I saw a left-side
turnout of sorts. It being New York City there was no shoulder on the
right side. I pulled in there and waited for us to regroup.
We launched back onto the expressway, a
feat of itself in traffic.
Then I missed a turn.
Leading a group of bikes, six were
behind me, severely limits your options for navigation error
recovery. If I had been by myself, I would have managed it all okay.
And I would not have to report my stupidity in this public forum.
Heck, I might have even paid three tolls for the Whitestone Bridge. I
might have, if it was just me.
Instead, I blindly followed my GPS into
bedlam. At lunch only then did a fellow rider reveal the causal
element. “Sometimes when you miss a way point, your GPS will route
you backwards to that point, instead of pointing you forward to the
next one,” Token2 explained. “A better way is to plug in each
point-to-point as a separate trip.”
Ignorant of that Garmin foible, and
mildly panicked about missing the expressway after the bridge, and
with a gaggle of conflicting opinions about the right way out of the
mess, I found myself on the on-ramp headed back north to the #$%^&
Whitestone Bridge, when I wanted to be going south away from the
bridge.
A solution presented itself. One or two
of my fellow riders even concurred. But not all of us executed the
solution flawlessly.
Fortunately, no one was injured. Mac's
rack should be able to be bent back to its original position. (Flag
rack. On his bike. Geeze! What were you thinking?) Captain's front
end may need replacing. But it's a Honda and therefore plastic and
presumably only a money matter, perhaps even covered by insurance.
All that on my mind and a second wrong
turn soon after recovering from the bridge roundabout and Token2 rode
up with an offer to lead me to an easily discernible path, at which
point he offered that I could attempt to regain any shred of dignity
I might by retaking the lead. I was defeated. I agreed.
As we headed Token's way, me in the
second position, I saw straight ahead of me the freeway ramp for
which I'd so frustratingly searched. It was right there. It was
straight ahead. It was the way point my GPS had been seeking. I
should charge ahead and take it! The light turned green. I meekly
followed Token instead, turning left to go a different way than my
brilliant, desktop computer plan.
Eventually I recovered and saw the
Verrazano-Narrows Bridge ahead. Holy crap! Thirteen dollars? The toll
is $13? Oooooh, ouch! I should have Googled that the night before. It
might have changed the whole route right there, and saved me the
embarrassment of this ride.
I have always wanted to ride this great
bridge on my motorcycle. When it opened in 1964 it had the
distinction of having the longest suspended span in the world.
Greater than even the Golden Gate Bridge. The mighty towers at either
end holding up the span actually are built to lean away from each
other to allow for the earth's curvature. Each is held together by 3
million rivets and a million bolts. John Travolta danced around the
mighty suspension cables in “Saturday Night Fever.” I had never
been on the bridge on my motorcycle.
Myself, I gladly paid the toll. It was
a thrill, even if it cost something like a dollar a second. But I
would not have foisted that fee on my fellow riders without their
prior consent. Lunch cost just $20 apiece, for heaven's sake, and was
really good, and lasted an hour.
It will be a month before I get my EZ
Pass statement. However, according to MTA's web site, the motorcycle
EZ Pass is heavily discounted and cost us only $4.18. The $13 sign
was for cars paying cash. By comparison, New York should have whacked
us $2.09 for the Whitestone Bridge and actually charged us more,
$4.75, for the far less dramatic Tappan Zee Bridge.
But you know how it is. These guys will
forever remember the $13.
Over the Verrazano and rocketing across
stately Staten Island, a perverse thought crept into my head.
Things were settled down now. We were
back in our groove. And I wondered, if only for a moment, I wondered,
I was still in the lead mind you, I wondered if these guys would all
follow me if I just now dove off on some random exit. My voice of
reason told me I had instigated enough confusion for the day and any
shenanigans would be poorly received.
At lunch I did offer my return route up
for a vote. The resounding majority was for the good old, boring
Garden State Parkway. And off we trudged yet again.
