South Wayne, NJ, February 19, 2012, Polar Bear Motorcycle Blog

South Wayne, NJ, February 19, 2012, Polar Bear Motorcycle Blog

By: Chris Loynd

Hooters!

Hooters is our shortest ride in the Polar Bear schedule. Most of us only get one mileage point. However this year we managed to stretch it into one of the longest rides – in terms of time.

There was a Harley-Davidson ad a few years back that said, “No great story ever started with, 'I was sitting on the couch when . . .'.”

Captain has had his share of adventure on a motorcycle. Fortunately he overcomes most every adversity with a well stocked kit. He is a consummate Boy Scout, though I don't know if he ever was one. Captain is always prepared.

He reminds me of the pilot Orr in Joseph Heller's “Catch-22.” Orr keeps crashing. Each time his plane is shot down he makes a water landing and comes popping out of the plane fully prepared for any emergency with his little yellow life vest and paddling around in his tiny, inflatable life raft. (For all I know, Captain carries a tiny, inflatable life raft on his bike.)

So when his tire went down on our ride last Sunday, Captain snapped into action, pumping it up with the compact, portable, 12 volt, air pump he always carries in his bike's saddlebags.

Captain was sweeping and we were alerted to his plight only when his buddy rider Token2 eventually noticed Captain was no longer in his rear view mirrors and came riding up to alert the leader. (I'm not sure who was riding ahead of Token2, but that is the rider who should have alerted us when Token2 dropped back with Captain to see if assistance was required.)

Mac, leading his first Polar Bear ride, was oblivious. But in his defense, we do tend to get strung apart a bit when we merge from one highway to another. And there were a lot of bikes, well okay just eight, to keep track of.

While Token2 was up front shouting at Mac through a full face helmet, a car pulled up and matched speed with me. I was in the third position, which made me the second left-side rider after Mac. We were in the right-hand travel lane. This guy in the car was gesturing in great earnest. I had not a clue as to what he was trying to say. I soon found out.

Token2 now in the lead, pulled us off at the northernmost rest area at the top of the Garden State Parkway (GSP). He knew only that he had lost sight of Captain as we merged.

Before anyone launched a heroic rescue effort, I got Captain on his cell phone and he told me he had lost pressure in his rear tire on the on-ramp to the GSP from I-287. He was hoping to pump enough air into the tire to reach us. It takes some time. Those little pumps are slow. Waiting seems even slower.

Token2, perhaps feeling guilty about abandoning Captain, hesitated a bit then decided to ride back to see if he could help. This would require him to ride through quite a few miles of northern New Jersey and southern New York. Captain arrived at the rest stop long before Token2 reemerged from his fruitless reconnoiter.

When he arrived at the rest stop where we were waiting, I crawled on my hands and knees behind Captain's bike as he slowly pulled forward, trying to see if there was a nail or screw or other obvious problem with the tire. We went quite a ways through the parking lot, me on all fours like a dog sniffing Captain's rear tire. I could not find anything. Only when we arrived at Hooters did Captain reveal he had a center stand, you know, the kind that allows the back tire to spin freely while the bike remains conveniently stationary?

Captain next pulled out his tube of Slime flat repair and used the gas station's air to pump his tire back to life again.

It seemed longer. And nobody looked at their watch when we pulled over. But the whole delay was maybe 30 or 40 minutes. We headed to Hooters.

Unfortunately, the Slime did not perform as advertised. So in the parking lot of our destination, Jim-O, yet another apparent Boy Scout, brought out a tire plugging kit.

These are good guys with which to ride! It seems everybody but me had a can of slime and air pump. Jim-O had a complete tire plugging kit, one especially made for motorcycles nonetheless.

I remember when I bought my bike. I asked my friend and Dealership General Manager Domenic Maturo what tools I should carry on my Harley-Davidson. Dom looked at me, smiled, and said, “You?” and then held up his cell phone, “This is all you need.”

In fact I do have some tools tucked away in my saddlebags. But I don't much know how to use them. And there are a few emergency supplies too, mostly centered around my survival as I wait for help to come after I've called on my cell phone.

And in my own defense, I have tube tires. So if one goes flat, well, there's no way I'm carrying tire irons and a patch kit or spare tube. Besides, I would not have the first, faintest idea of how to get the wheels on and off this machine with its springer front end and the drive belt on the rear.

Captain tediously pumped his tire back to life in the Hooters parking lot. We patiently waited.

Then we were headed home.

Mac, also a Navy man, gave no quarter. Me, I maybe would have tried to limp the bike home. Mac blasted up the GSP at speed and Captain kept up . . . for a little while.

Fonz said you could see smoke out of both sides of Captain's rear tire when it blew.

Captain never heard the explosion. He just felt the wobble. But it must have been a big boom. Because when Captain went to guide his crippled bike from the far left passing lane to the far right shoulder, across four travel lanes, he found them all empty. All the cars had come to a dead stop behind him. Fonz and Jim-O had blocked the lanes too.

Captain never lost his balance. He expertly guided the bike to the shoulder. This time Fonz, Jim-O and Token2 stayed with him. (In fact I wonder if Token2 followed the tow truck all the way back to Milford.)

I did not see it happen. Three other bikes and I were trying to keep up with Mac at the head of the pack. So I cannot say for sure how Captain reacted to calamity.

I bet he was nonplussed.

My point of reference comes from when Captain blew up his Harley-Davidson motor on a Polar Bear ride last season. I stayed with him until the tow truck arrived and then followed them home. Captain took it all in stride and with good humor.

Then there is the story of Captain on a summer ride across the country a few years back, where his engine blew up and he had the bike shipped home, completing his trip by bus and then flying back from the West Coast after completing his vacation. He describes it all as a fun adventure.

Hooters was good to the eyes and stomachs, not so much the service. I was left waiting for my food, last one at our table. We tried to recall who it was that befell the fickle finger of fate two years ago. We voted that it was Russ whose order was forgotten. Well they don't hire the wait staff based upon an I.Q. test, and who can protest?

My chicken sandwich arrived just as my compatriots were finishing their meals. As my fellow Bears can tell you, I am a slow eater. So it turned out I contributed, in my own small way, to making our shortest mileage Polar Bear run of the season into the longest in time.

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.

California Day One

Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Los Angeles to Pismo Beach, California

Well the netbook booted just fine after riding all day in the saddlebag.

What an amazing first day. Is it better, I wonder, to have your best day of vacation be the first, or the last day?

Yesterday was mostly all airplane. So it counts as a work day. The time difference between East and West Coast caused me not a bit of trouble. Being a world champion sleeper, and having shorted myself with preparations Monday night, I simply slept through the extra three hours last night. Easy.

I woke refreshed and finally surrendered my watch to California time.

After breakfast I caught a cab from my LAX Travelodge Hotel to nearby Eagle Rider motorcycle rentals. Business acquaintance Mark Bastarache of Business Network hooked me into a discounted Harley-Davidson rental. I picked up a beautiful Road Glide, blue, for my trip on the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH), U.S. 1.

Hey, wait a minute. How can we have two U.S. Route Ones? There's one of those on the East Coast too. Our part of the country being settled so much sooner, surely we were first. Shouldn't California's be U.S. Route Two?

Everybody at Eagle Rider was great. I packed the bike, left a bag behind with my Aquarium business wear for the IMAX convention next week and promptly made my first foray onto the famous Los Angeles freeways. Yes, they are as bad as you have heard.

My task was to shoot up the 405 to catch 10 west to Route 1 north. Seems simple, right?

Well thinking myself clever, I opted for the car pool lane. It was the only lane appearing reliable. The others were rubber banding severely at every exit and on-ramp.

Unfortunately once in the lane I felt bound by the double yellow line. There had been broken white lines here and there where cars could merge in and out of the car pool lane. I entered at a set. But when Route 10 appeared, no broken lines did. By the time I determined to sneak across, I had missed my exit. I might have made it on I-84 back home. But in L.A., once out of the car pool lane there were still five lanes to cross to make the exit.

I went on by I-10 and took Santa Monica Boulevard exit. Based upon my glance at the map before I left, I figured how far can it be to the ocean? So I turned left, west, and started down the Boulevard. Hey, just like the popular song, “All I wanna do is have some fun, I gotta feeling I'm not the only one . . . 'till the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard.”

Only the “Boulevard” looked very much like a dirty, gritty, four lane city street with curbside parking and a stop light every block. After a bit of this I figured it was not what I sought for vacation riding. Glancing at my AAA Triptik map, I turned left again, heading back south to pick up I-10.

A bit more stop and go city driving and I was zipping along again, headed as west as you can go in the U.S.A., to the Pacific Coast Highway. I was there in no time.

(Yeah, I know Hawaii is further west than this. And Alaska stretches nearly to Russia, just ask Sarah Palin. Let's not get technical. Okay?)

Weather was gorgeous. An above average 80 degrees. Sunshine. Brilliant Sunshine. It felt great!

Seems to me the only way to survive New England is to get the heck out to someplace warm at least once per winter. But then again, I did not grow up there, so I am not fully acclimatized.

I had started the morning with my light pair of winter gloves. When I hit the PCH I switched to fingerless, also zipped the winter liners out of my leather jacket and riding pants.

At first it was still very urban. Then there it was, the vast Pacific Ocean. Beautiful. Bluer than the Atlantic. Visibility to the horizon.

California gives every appearance of having, just very recently, fallen into the sea. To the west is the ocean. To the east are steep, very steep, hills. Sometimes the hills are maybe a mile away, sometimes they reach right to the water.

There is no transition here. Steep hills, mountains even, then the sea. No Piedmont nor gently rolling hills. Only abrupt, steep, deeply cut, hills.

California's geography looks very young. Features are sharp, angular, extreme. Every where water runs it cuts very deeply into the hills and mountains. I am no geologist, but it does not look like they have a bit of granite in the place. Maybe farther back to the Sierra Nevada. But here on the coast it looks like sand and mud, not even rock. Little scrubby bushes cling to the hills and sparsely so.

Then I got to Malibu and amazingly there were houses everywhere. They were right down on the beach, with the road hard on their backs. Even crazier, houses were clinging to these obviously eroded hillsides.

I'm no architect nor engineer. Even so, it seems to me any fool can see that the soft land is continually falling into the ocean. How do the people who live in these houses sleep at night? I would be pacing the floor, on the uphill side, ready to jump out before the house tumbled down with the rest of the sand into the sea.

It is hard for me to summon much sympathy for mudslide victims. When you moved in, wasn't it obvious the hill was just waiting to let go?

On the other hand, people live in New Orleans several feet below sea level with only an Army Corps of Engineers mud dike holding the water away. In Florida they rebuild after every hurricane. Even I live along the mouth of a river supposedly protected from flooding again like it did in the 30s by several dams upstream. The year my son Trever was born, hurricane Gloria paid a visit. We didn't move inland.

I turned up Malibu Canyon Road and cranked the big Harley up the hill through twists and turns clinging on the edge of a very steep and deep canyon.

As I carved the canyon I wanted to stop and take a picture of this amazing topography. I saw turnouts, advertised by signs a quarter mile in advance. But each turnout was lined with no parking, stopping or standing signs. I didn't get it. Why have a scenic turnout, if no parking is allowed? Not knowing the local custom I rode on.

Then I saw a sign for a “vista” and there the parking signs allowed me to stay for 10 minutes. That's where I grabbed some photos.

It was amazing to me how rural the canyon was. All the sudden you went from packed city to wilderness. Such extremes compose California's charm.

As I popped out of the canyon top I rode a bit more up the mountain. It was noticeably cooler. Not knowing how far it was to the very top, I turned around and headed back down. As I entered the canyon, a sign explained the no parking, stopping, standing turnouts. It said, “slower vehicles use turnouts.”

Since the highway was only two lanes, trucks and Winnebagos and such pull into the turnouts to allow faster vehicles to pass. Glad I wasn't parked in one, defiantly taking photos. They do run trucks and trailers up and down these roads.

Back along the coast, the PCH went from two lanes to four, then back to two. Again, it went from house lined to completely rural in a matter of yards. I guess there are some hills too steep even for these crazy Californians. Or maybe there just aren't enough Californians to build out this far.

They have a unique idea of freeways here. Instead of building over or underpasses, they simply declare that “freeway ends” with “cross traffic ahead.” It's all the same road, the speed limit drops from 65 down to 55. Nothing else changes. Once past the intersections a sign declares “freeway begins” and you can crank on another 10 mph.

I actually started out on Route 101. From Los Angeles to San Luis Obispo Routes 101 and 1 have an on-again, off-again, relationship. They split at Buellton and reconnect at Pismo Beach. It is marked as though you're always switching from one to the other. There are lots of signs offering 101 access once you're on 1.

At Buellton the geography changed dramatically. The ocean was gone and I was twisting and turning through cattle country with rancheros and very few signs of civilization. Another dramatic and abrupt change in scenery.

Vandenberg Air Force Base gets the shore on this part of the PCH. It's a missile test range. So I guess they don't want to be shooting rockets over the highway. Amazingly, you drive right past rifle ranges, I mean right off the highway. You could walk to them. Fortunately they shoot away from the road.

Rather suddenly once again, the country flattend out and changed from cattle to crops. Vegetable farms and packing plants stretched for miles.

Guadalupe was a working town. It looked like a hundred farm towns I have visited. One strong main street. Plants and trucks and tractors and mud dragged onto the highway at either end of town. Dying retail in the center. Old houses built right to the road. Pool halls, bars and VFWs and churches for Sunday cures to Saturday debaucheries.

At the northern edge of town I stopped to add a few layers and switch back again to the winter gloves. The warm sun was drooping in the sky.

A glance at my vintage Triptik and San Luis Obispo seemed a reasonable target for what was left of the day. That's where Routes 1 and 101 part ways for a hundred miles, with a ridge of mountains between them.

For a bit before that, the coast cut back into Route 1 again and I was enjoying the PCH with an ocean view. Just above Pismo Beach 1 rejoins 101. And just before it does, it skirts along a coastline cliff. I saw a couple of cool hotels and then I suddenly was back up to 65 mph on the 101 freeway.

As I rocketed toward San Luis Obispo, I was having a conversation with myself inside my head. The more I talked to myself, the more I became convinced that Pismo Beach scenery back there was pretty sweet. And now I was headed back inland. It took me a few miles to decide. Then I got off an exit, crossed over, and got back on the freeway retracing my tracks back south.

It turned out to be an extraordinarily good decision.

The cliff side hotel gave me a good government rate and a beautiful room overlooking the ocean. The sun was low and warm and casting long shadows and soft colors. Out over the water there was a low line of clouds miles away.

Perched upon the cliffs, an amazing gazebo dotted an impossible point of land. Before I walked out there for a better look, I called the wifey at home. And in our less than half-hour conversation, my beautiful scenery disappeared. That low line of clouds was a fog bank. I watched it roll right over me and the hotel. The sun was still up. The ocean and cliffs were gone.

They did not reappear the next morning either.

Meanwhile the hotel restaurant was under construction. Fortunately the desk clerk steered me to “Steamers” a short walk away. The restaurant's theme is “a mile of clams.”

I also took a walk on the beach. Beach access was via about three stories of steep staircase.

Returning to the hotel, I decided to take a dip in the pool. It was heated and open until 11 p.m. The air was misty, a light drizzle going. I started out in the hot tub then took a dip in the pool and then back to the whirlpool. Had the whole pool area to myself.

Back to my room late, I dressed and finally walked out to that gazebo. The hotel had bright lights shining on the cliffs and the rocks below. Very nice.

Finally I sat out on my room's porch with my net book and tried to capture today's scenes, Pacific waves offering a bucolic symphony.

North Brunswick, NJ; January 10, 2010

North Brunswick, NJ; January 10, 2010

bright but cold, 11 degrees to start, 26 to end

Maybe it was the challenge. A bitter cold Sunday, coldest of our Polar Bear motorcycle season so far, brought a big turnout among the Connecticut bears. Maybe too, the character of the CTPB is changing, or just broadening.

Core riders who make most every Sunday are still here and grow by a bear or two every year. Warm weather bears remain on my e-mail list, and so are presumably interested still. But the newest bears seem more hardcore this year. Fonz and Pogy are real riders. Bart quickly became one of the core. Jim, of all things, rode up from New Rochelle, N.Y., Sunday only to turn around and head back south with us.

Whatever the reasons, we rode down to Jersey with 10 bikes Sunday.

We even picked up an unexpected rider, Jim from Bridgeport Harley-Davidson, on his first ride with us. His plan was to ride up from his home in New Rochelle to meet us at the Dunkin' in Stratford and then turn around and ride back south with us. But he saw us headed southbound on I-95 as he was still headed northbound. Jim got off the next exit, looped around, gunned his beautiful old Harley (FLH?) and caught up with us in Fairfield.

By the by, the wrong way riding record is still held by our adopted bear big Jersey Matt. On more than one occasion, he has started out uber-early, ridden north from his home in New Jersey to meet us at the Dunkin' in Connecticut and then turned around and done the distance back down to Jersey with us.

I was sweep on this ride. (John Jackson took the lead, albeit with a bit of prodding.) Soon after we started out I saw a single headlight coming up from behind us, did not recognize the rider. His New York license plate threw me off too. But I figured nobody but a Polar Bear would be out here this morning headed south. So I slid over a lane and waved him into line. It wasn't until we got to our destination that I knew it was Jim from Bridgeport H-D.

We fooled Pogy too. He called me Saturday to ask if, where and when we were going. He had just returned from Shanghai, yeah Shanghai, and was anxious to go riding. Pogy works for Sikorsky helicopter and whatever his specific job is, it seems his territory is the world.

Anyway, Sunday morning, as arranged, I called his cell and told him we were feet up in 10 minutes. Typically he slides into formation from the Darien rest stop. We must have left a bit early because just a past Norwalk, where Pogy lives, he was suddenly there in the right lane looking to drop into our line.

As he settled in, it occurred to me that our leader John J. still would be looking for Pogy at the Darien stop just ahead. I switched to the passing lane and rode up to the front. John J. must have been intently focused on leading because it took some time before he noticed me next to him. I was right there, right next to him, matching his speed, and thinking about giving him a little kick, when he finally, finally looked over.

Next we engaged in repeated bouts of hand gestures, head shakes and nods. Bike-to-bike communication at speed is challenging any time of year. In winter shouting is not an option with full face helmets, balaclavas and face masks layered over our mouths and ears.

I gave what I thought was the universal signal for proceeding straight ahead. John J. promptly moved from the middle to the right lane. I held my left lane and again signaled straight ahead. Meanwhile, confused riders behind us started to scramble. Some were half in one lane, others held position, still others merged right. I'm amazed nobody exited the highway.

Finally John J. caught my meaning, tipped back into the middle lane and resumed apace. Successful, I slowed to let the line of bikes pass me so I could resume my sweep position.

Meanwhile, Pogy had figured on gassing up at the Darien rest stop. But we showed up early. So he grit his teeth and was on fumes when we finally got to the turn-in to Sir John's. We darn near ran him out of gas all the way down to Jersey. I'm kinda sorry we didn't. Running a Gold Wing out of gas is no easy task on Harleys. These Honda guys have more fuel capacity and get better gas mileage. It would have been something to run a Wing out. But Pogy did the distance by the hair of his chinny, chin, chin.

When we went to leave for home after lunch we all figured to gas up at Chez GSP, all except Bart, that is. Bart has a longer ride to join up with our group in the morning. So he was low. Too low. So we deferred to Bart and all gassed up at the two stations right outside Sir John's.

I got one of those crappy, plastic guard covered nozzles at the Getty and could not for the life of me get the handle to deliver anything less than full blast; got gas all over me and the tank.

Meanwhile our other guys gassed up at this and the other station. Filled up, we formed up, and blasted up the highway for home . . . without the one guy who needed gas now instead of waiting for Chez GSP. Fortunately for Bart, Token took time to count. He shot up the line and got John J. to hold up the race for home. Meanwhile poor Bart looked around and asked the gas attendant, “Did you see which way all those motorcycles went?”

But I am getting ahead of myself.

Back to morning, we rolled southbound in the incredibly cold air. I was quite comfortable. My legs were cold, but they tolerate it well. My torso was plenty warm. I was dressed at my last level of cold riding protection. That meant my electric liner was under my electric jacket. That combo works so well, I never even called for more than half capacity from the thermostat.

It also meant hippo hands were strapped onto my handlebars. Snuggled inside them, my new Gerbing electric gloves performed admirably, so long as they were protected from the wind.

The new Shark helmet worked fine too. It took me a few miles to figure out the visor stops to get it cracked just enough to clear the condensation, but not so much so as to freeze my face. At one point, I swear I was seeing ice buildup inside the visor.

On my feet my heavy snowmobile boots had not one but two chemical heat packs apiece inside, one under each set of toes, another under each arch. Heat pack warmth lasted the full day.

Our other guys were well prepped too. No one complained about being cold. In fact as we suited up for the ride home, the parking lot in Jersey, under full sun, seemed balmy by comparison. “By comparison to what?” you are probably asking yourself! Well by comparison to that morning of course. Certainly not by comparison to any other season.

The primary difference between winter and summer riding is that you don't just jump on the bike and go for a ride in winter. It takes a good half-hour to get dressed.

Sunday morning I had on extra, extra layers. I was teasing my wife Cynthia, telling her I was like knights of yore suiting up for battle in vestments and armor. I suggested maybe she wanted to be my squire, you know, help pull up the too-tight third layer long johns, lace my big boots, maybe at the very end hand me up my helmet and gauntlets from bended knee. She snapped back, “I do more than enough for you on bended knee. You're on your own with this Polar Bear nonsense.”

Protected in full wind armor, you mount your steed, ready to ride, nearly impervious to the cold, nearly impervious.

Arriving at your destination you then must remove some of the armor. Otherwise you would sweat buckets into your protective undergarments. These would then act as evaporative chillers when you went back outside. Unfortunately you cannot remove all the layers. It would not be polite to eat in your underwear. So lunch is still decidedly less comfortable than sitting in jeans and a sweatshirt on a summer day, chillin' at your favorite biker bar.

Everybody is clomping about in heavy boots, their overstuffed nylon pants thighs voop-vooping as thighs rub together with every step.

Then when you go to get back on the bike, there is a 10 minute ritual of resealing Velcro straps, pulling helmets over balaclavas, tucking in neck gaiters and plugging in electrics. The tucking in neck gaiters is something you just cannot do yourself. So we walk around like chimps grooming each other, helping to get that last flap under the jacket collar of a fellow polar bearer.

Once you're settled on the bike, most of the pleasures of motorcycling are there. Oh, we may miss riding with the wind in our hair and on our faces. And we certainly won't earn any suntans. But you ride with full protective gear in the summer anyway, don't you?

Sir John's treated us well. The romantic aspect promised on their web site was absent, But that was not the restaurant's fault. There are so few lady Polar Bears. And the ones who do participate, it's often very hard to tell if they are women or men because all clothing layers tend to fill out everyone's figure to a homogenized lump. Sometimes you can guess by fringe on the lady's jackets or chaps.

The maitre'd put three tables together for us. We were 11 when Jersey Matt joined us.

As we prepared to order, we were made aware that Bernie was buying lunch. Wo hoo! Steak and lobster! Turns out Bernie won member of the week, a Polar Bear 50/50 type deal. Even though Bernie wasn't there to enjoy with us, we were sure he would have wanted to buy us lunch with his winnings if he had been there with us. Thanks Bernie! What a guy!

Captain and Grumpy stridently protected the newcomers from making any chicken salad mistakes.

If you are not a longtime blog reader, it was maybe three years ago (or four?) that the chicken fiasco occurred. Captain and Grumpy both typically order a chicken sandwich for our brief Polar Bear feasts. (Grumpy orders a hamburger when he can be assured of getting one that meets his high standards.) At Sir John's the chef interprets a chicken sandwich as being made with chicken salad, rather than a slab or slices of chicken flesh.

When the mayonnaise hit the fan at that lunch several years ago, you would have thought the earth stuttered in its rotation.

Grumpy, in particular, is particular about his meal. He won't drink Pepsi when they don't have Coke. He has some very specific instructions in preparing hamburgers for his consumption. And he does not accept that a chicken sandwich can be made with diced chicken and vegetables, thickened with mayonnaise.

On a summer group ride years ago, we were all out to dinner at a rather nice restaurant in Vermont. When it was Johnny's turn to order he gave very detailed instructions as to how his steak was to be prepared: well done, and what, exactly, “well done” meant to Johnny B. He warned the waiter that if it wasn't done right, he wasn't paying for it. He then bragged to us all about how he was not grumpy, just particular.

So after we all gave our food orders I slipped away on the pretense of going to the restroom. I sneaked outside and from the landscaping picked up three of the biggest wood chips I could find. Then I intercepted our waiter, handed him the chips, and told him to serve them on a covered plate to our intolerant riding buddy.

Our steaks all came on covered plates and when Johnny B. removed the cover from his plate, his face went dangerously dark. If his wife Margaret had not been there, he might have killed us all. Instead he sputtered a bit, and very begrudgingly came around to the notion that it was a joke, on him, and that bashing someone's head in was not an appropriate response. As the rest of us all laughed, Grumpy worked very hard and finally managed a smile.

Lest you get the wrong impression, I should add that big, grumpy Johnny Bowlan has a heart of gold. He shared his campsite with me on my first Daytona ride when the campground proprietor wanted to put my tent next to the pump out station over the septic tank. Johnny shared without hardly knowing anything about me, except that I was a fellow HOG. (That's another whole story.) He showed me how to change the oil on my bike. He is as quick as any Bear to offer assistance and buy a round of coffees. Except Grumpy drinks hot chocolate, and not the mix with water, but made with milk . . . .

Pogy brought party favors. Everyone at our table, except Fonz and yours truly, got a side stand coaster and key chain. The items of largess are for promoting safe motorcycle riding and Fonz and I being ConnRep Rider Coaches already have a set.

With 11 at one table, it was hard to keep one conversation going. Generally there were two or three, so I cannot report on what was being discussed at the other end of our table. Down at our end, as sweep, I was campaigning for breaking the group into two sets of five, instead of a long group of 10. It took multiple suggestions, the group finally came over to my way of thinking, but then Jim discovered one of his former girlfriends was also a Polar Bear. (He must have spotted her fringe.)

So Jim decided to ride on south with her. Being nine the group voted my motion moot and we rode home in one big group of nine bikes, thresholds being what they are.

And maybe 10 is the magic number, because going back we had not nearly so many cars cut through or into our line of bikes as we did on the way down.

Leaned over in the 360-plus degree corkscrew on-ramp for the George Washington Bridge, an idiot cut into our line from a stop sign. I mean, I could see if it was a yield. But we clearly had the right of way. He clearly had a S-T-O-P sign. Guess he couldn't wait. Gotta love those New Yorkers. No quarter given, none asked.

A similar, but more predictable, aggression occurred approaching the Turnpike on-ramp. A driver realizing at the last minute that she needed to be over “there” to get onto the turnpike simply pushed into our line without a signal, without so much as a “by your leave.” That was bad enough. It happens. What was worse, however, was her not having the good graces to get out of our line when the opportunity presented itself. Thank heavens she did not have EZ Pass, otherwise she may have stayed in our middle all the way to North Brunswick. Fortunately she suddenly went slicing out of our line and across multiple rows of oncoming traffic to get her turnpike card from a toll attendant as we rolled on through the express pass lanes.

John Jackson was taking no prisoners as lead rider either.

We picked up Token and Bart at the I-287 and Hutchinson Parkway intersection (Token called it a “junction”) with nary a pause. John J. leaned into the on-ramp and cranked it down the Hutch.

As sweep I tried, when traffic cleared, to send John J. a signal to slow down to let the two new riders catch up. I held the right lane open for our guys to move over. But John J. just cranked away.

Bart finally caught up and slipped into line ahead of me. But Token must have found a wormhole or exploited a gap in the space-time continuum.

Actually he probably over-revved his brand spankin' new BMW. Yeah, new BMW.

Can you believe it? Token must have been wanting to protect his nickname. He went out to buy a new motorcycle after an egregious ass whooping from Erik Buell. He suffered a nearly yearlong odyssey of tow truck rides, replacing all sorts of parts, including the wiring harness, and the bike never ran right. John H. finally had to invoke the Connecticut Lemon Law against being saddled with shoddily manufactured vehicles. To their credit, John H. felt well treated by his dealer, Danbury Harley-Davidson. We all disavowed Buell as being anything like Harley-Davidson. And of course Harley has finally dropped that failed experiment.

Despite the fine demonstration of chrome and camaraderie by his fellow Harley-equipped Polar Bears, John H. still went and bought another foreign machine. A BMW for chrissake. I mean really, what do a BMW and a motorcycle have in common? One of our Harley guys described Token's new ride as a, “carapace of a futuristic insect morphed with a Star Wars vehicle.”

I thought the British did not like the Germans. Maybe all is forgiven. After all we had a falling out with the Brits too. Every time I see Mel Gibson in “The Patriot” I get hungry for some payback. (Nothing personal Token.)

That reminds me of a story from my Chesapeake waterman friend Buddy. His father was called “Geesey” on account of he hired out as guide for goose hunters over to the Choptank River and such.

One night Buddy, his dad and some other fellers are having a few beers at a bar out on Tilghman Island. Buddy is a very outgoing type guy and as he goes up to the bar to retrieve another round, he meets two young German guys. Only in their twenties, they had just sailed over to Maryland from Germany.

Buddy figures they must have some good stories and so invites them back to his table. Well they're all having beers and talking up a storm with their heavy German accents, the locals having a good time hearing about the Germans' adventure. All except Geesey. He's not saying a word.

Suddenly Geesey drains his beer and slams the mug on the table. The bar goes dead quiet. Geesey looks over at the German guys and says, “We had a little trouble with you fellas a few years back.” He's not kidding.

There is a very long pause.

Finally one of the German guys says, “Yah, yah, zat vus a long time ago.”

Geesey responds, “We kicked yer ass too!”

The German replies, “Yah . . . let me buy you another beer.”

Geesey says, “Nah, I'll buy you one.”

And all is jovial once again.