Long Ride for Old Guys

Connecticut Polar Bears in Lewes, Del,, from left: CT Blogger, Grumpy, John J. and Mac.

EDP Connecticut Bears in Lewes, Del., from left, Fonz and Anonymous Ed.

Polar Bear Motorcycle Blog, Polar Bear Grand Tour, ride to Irish Eyes Pub, Lewes, Del., November 3, 2019.

By: Chris Loynd
Photos by: Grumpy and Chris

Welcome to Polar Bear Season, 2019 – 2020. Our season always starts with two long rides, Cape May, N.J. and Lewes, Del. We had a nasty Nor'easter for Cape May and none of the Connecticut crowd was up to the long ride in the rain. Years ago we made our bones in the rain, riding a ridiculous Cape May run in the rain all the way. We saw DOT snowplow trucks on the Merritt Parkway clearing water off the roadway.

The Lewes weather was better, much better. I rode down on Saturday for a visit with my folks in Wilmington. It also lets me ride one-quarter the distance the day before. Lewes is 570 miles round trip for us. That's a good touring day, in the summer.

By the time we took our stop-at-the-top, the last rest stop on the Garden State Parkway, we were all feeling more than a bit sore. Many of the New Jersey bears take this ride in two days, staying at a hotel in Lewes Saturday night. We may be getting there too.

John J. seemed to be doing the best aboard his Beemer. (Or he just complained the least.) Mac was sore. That's double-tough because he comes farthest, with almost an hour of riding to our Stratford jumping off point.

Grumpy was feeling sore and had some back issues earlier in the year that didn't help.

I was on the Harley Springer. When I had the restoration done I let my builder talk me into beach bars. They look cool, yes. But I was getting a pain underneath my shoulder blade, I think in part from the spread of the bars. Great for looks, maybe not so much for touring.

Pogy decided it was just too far for his back and sat this one out.

Captain was ready to ride and showed up at the Dunkin' on his Honda Goldwing. But when it was time to leave, his voltage indicator showed the system wasn't charging. Despite his long standing reputation of having no fear of tow trucks, John decided to head home instead of risking it.

Fonz and Anonymous Ed applied EDP (Early Departure Protocol), leaving before 6 a.m. They ate at the diner in Lewes and then somehow talked the Grand Tour Flight B leaders into letting them sign in early. I caught them leaving just as I arrived around 11:10 a.m. The rest of our Connecticut crew showed up right on time.

We enjoyed a good lunch and caught up with each other and all decided we are happy to start the season.

A Loooong Ride Strains Discipline

Connecticut Polar Bear Riders in Lewes, from left: CT Blogger, Captain, Jorge, Mac, Grumpy and Pogy down front.

Polar Bear Motorcycle Blog, Polar Bear Grand Tour, ride to Irish Eyes Pub, Lewes, Del., November 4, 2018

By: Chris Loynd, a.k.a. CT Blogger
Photos by: John Bowlan, a.k.a. Grumpy (and a couple by Chris)

Ten hours in a saddle can try anyone's nerves. It's especially hard to retain your composure when the ride back is longer than the ride down. It's even worse when these 10 hours are not spent on scenic backroads or cruising across the great plains of South Dakota. No, not us. We were pounding up and down the New Jersey Turnpike and Garden State Parkway around New York City. Winter riding is a bit more demanding too. Instead of tooling along in a light jacket and jeans, you're layered up in enough full riding gear to stay warm.

Me, I cheated. I didn't have it as bad as my compatriots, freely admitted. I spent Saturday night with my folks, north of Wilmington, Del. That meant my Sunday morning ride was just two-and-a-half hours, compared to the Connecticut departees' four-and-a-half ride down to Lewes. To top things off, they got off late.

I rode to Lewes Sunday morning, then waited an hour to meet up with Grumpy, Captain, Mac, Pogy and a new Polar Bear Jorge. Jorge is a friend of the Fonz. As he did last week, Fonz left early with Trike Mike and Anonymous Ed. We met up with them, briefly when they signed-in and headed home. The rest of us ate a nice lunch at Irish Eyes Pub before heading back. There was some speculation Irish Eyes had raised prices over the summer. I paid $15 for a grilled cheese and cup of tomato soup.

Fortunately, the weather was good. Like last week there was a stormy Saturday and beautiful Sunday. It was cool enough for the winter gear but not so cold that you're fighting to stay warm. My electric clothes were turned off most of the day. As the day got later and darker, I did dial them up a bit. In fact, toward the end of our ride I bolloxed our symmetry by forgetting to connect my riding suit to the bike. As we departed from the stop at the top (Montvale Services on the Garden State) I dove out of formation at the last possible minute. Our sweep blew right by, clueless, but in his defense I did make a quick move when the other riders were focused on speeding up for the merge into traffic. Thanks to a long traffic jam of stop-and-go traffic leading up to the Tappan Zee, now Cuomo Bridge, I easily caught back up with the group. But we were frazzled by then anyway.

Delaware was good to us. There was not much traffic, even some scenery as we motored through the downstate flat expanses of drying brown soybeans and bright green winter wheat. It didn't last, though. All too soon we were over the Delaware Memorial Bridge and working through traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike.

Still, we can do better; we have done better. Maybe it's early in the season and we're rusty at group riding. Maybe it was too many miles and our nerves were fraying. Grumpy was lead with Captain as his wingman. I was third in line. Behind me, sometimes right next to me, Jorge was on his first Polar Bear ride. Mac was behind Jorge and Pogy was sweep. Six bikes are a manageable number in most any traffic, if we ride it right.

Jorge was rubber banding a bit, and we'll work with him if he stays with us. Mac rubber bands quite a bit, always has, and seems unwilling or unable to keep tight. That's tough on the sweep who can be too far back to easily clear for lane changes. If the bikes are spaced too far apart, there's always a cager who will try to butt in. It can make communication between the lead and sweep difficult.

Grumpy got impatient. I know it's hard. I've led my share of rides. You signal the lane change then wait for the sweep. It can help if you anticipate when the sweep can cross over and secure the lane. But to keep cars out of the formation, you have to wait. Grumpy would signal, get too tight on the car or truck in front of him, and move over, whether or not Pogy had cleared the lane. Pogy would make a space in traffic, but then we had a car jammed up in our formation because Grumpy already moved.

We've seen this before. But over six hours it gets more and more frustrating. Then it go worse.

On the Garden State Parkway, in the infamous Oranges, there was an accident. Arrrg!

Captain got really impatient in the resulting stop and go. He kept running ahead of Grumpy, taking over the lead, as if there was someplace to go. At one point I thought maybe he was getting bored and playing a game to see how close he could get to the white van in front of him without actually touching it.

I just paddled along, feet up, feet down, clutch in, clutch out, walking more than riding, trying to keep my place in formation, sometimes behind Captain, sometimes behind Grumpy, sometimes Jorge way behind me, sometimes Jorge beside me, sometimes Jorge ahead of me.

Things settled after we cleared the accident. But with the hour growing ever later, we stopped for gas and a quick pit stop at the top of the Garden State. Nobody wanted to take time for a coffee. We were all just anxious to get home. Unfortunately, the big flashing sign over the Parkway predicted 56 minutes to the Cuomo Bridge.

Bad behavior continued in the pre-bridge traffic jam. Then two ambulances began working their way through traffic in the far left lane where we were riding. Pogy and Mac moved over right away. The rest of us got over quickly too, leaving cars between us. Getting our lane back behind the ambulances was impossible. Aggressive car drivers were diving over, trying to follow the ambulances to get ahead of everyone else. The upshot was we never saw Pogy and Mac again. I trust they made it home okay.

We probably could have waited for them to catch up by taking the second lane on the bridge or later on I-287. But patience was in very short supply. As soon as traffic opened, throttles did the same.

Grumpy and Jorge split off to take the Merritt home. Captain and I headed to I-95. We were lucky in that. Uncharacteristically, I-95 traffic was better than usual. Captain had the smell of the barn in his nostrils and ran for home. I did my best to keep up.

We can ride better. We have ridden better. It's up to each individual to decide. But maybe we should have a group discussion about group riding at our next group Polar Bear lunch.

Our CT Crew arrives in Lewes.

Pogy, can you hear me now?

Mac and the CT crew arrive.

Irish Eyes on street parking required; their lot is stone only and not so good for motorcycles.

Picture of Grumpy taking a picture of CT Blogger.

CT Blogger taking picture of Grumpy taking picture.

Mac signs in. Big 6-pointer for the CT crew on this long ride.

CT Blogger is also Polar Bear Newsletter Editor and here conversing with Polar Bear Grand Poohbah Bob.

Chris signs in, Flight B.

Mac contemplating lunch.

Chris and Pogy trying to decide what to order.

Trike Mike stopped by.

Captain and Anonymous Ed.

Longest Day of Our Season

Connecticut Polar Bears in Lewes, from left, CT Blogger, Thumper, Token2, Captain (Ed behind him) and Grumpy.
Fonz was out filling his gas tank while we took the group photo.
Normally we'd have a Pogy down front and center. Missed you buddy!

Motorcycle Polar Bear Blog, Polar Bear Grand Tour, ride to Lewes, Del., Sunday, November 6, 2016.

By: Chris Loynd

A 12-hour day and 560-plus mile ride is a darn good touring day during summer season. Okay, Princess, can we at least say it's respectable? (If you don't know, Joanna's a long distance rider.)

Our guys started at 7 a.m. and, with a much needed stop at the top I pulled into the garage at 7 p.m.

I say "our guys" because I cheated. Investing a few extra miles in toto, I rode to my Mom and Dad's house on Saturday. That saved me about a quarter the time and distance on Sunday. It also bought me a two hour later start time and thereby scrapple and blueberry pancakes, with wild Alaskan blueberries hand picked by my sister. Thanks Gretchen!

My Alaskan sister Gretchen says "Adventure is always out there."

So I missed the ride down from Connecticut. If you read last week's blog, I kept my promise and arrived in Lewes about 20 minutes early. I sat on the curb with my camera awaiting my compatriots in order to grab an action photo.

Arrival in Lewes from a 7 a.m. start with Grumpy in the lead.

Back of the pack with Token and Captain. Other bikes behind aren't our group.

Fonz also rode, but like me not with our group on the way down. He just missed them at the start and never caught up. He arrived just after the main group but still in plenty of time for lunch.

We enjoyed a tasty, if a tad expensive, lunch at Irish Eyes Pub along the water. I continued my morning's culinary extravagance with a soft shell crab sandwich and homemade potato chips.

Thumper was along for this ride. He started riding with us last season. We call him Thumper because he's riding a single cylinder motorcycle. Now a sophomore he should know better, but he made two newbie mistakes Sunday.

At lunch he mentioned the election just two days before it was to happen, and with Captain sitting directly across the table no less. If you've ever wondered what it would be like to see MSNBC and FOX News playing simultaneously just feet apart, well we got a bitter taste at lunch Sunday.

I once carried the liberal mantle with my mostly conservative Connecticut Polar Bear buddies. Thumper makes me look like a birther, truther, prepper, tea-party, faithful follower of brother John Birch.

Still, we ride together because we enjoy riding together. Joys of the Polar Bear Grand Tour trump, um, supersede, our personal and political viewpoints. That doesn't mean we aren't free to express them. You are who you are and all are welcome to ride with us.

However, we are less tolerant of riding mistakes.

So when Thumper, wing man (wing person?) to Grumpy, tapped his helmet and led all the rest of the bikes off the exit, leaving leader Grumpy to ride on alone, well, that called for a talking to. Thumper thought Grumpy saw his signal. And in Thumper's defense, Grumpy had just changed lanes to the right. But it turned out that was for traffic, and not because he saw Thumper's signal.

Thumper was running out of gas, so he had to fill up sooner than we'd all agreed when we started out for home back in Lewes. His experience with his bike's fuel range was based upon 60 mph. The speed limits are mostly at 65, and Grumpy took a bit of liberty too. Thumper's little one cylinder was stroking pretty hard; his gas mileage suffered mightily.

Grumpy was doubly aggrieved. Last Sunday he was sweep. When the rain came, Captain led us under a bridge to gear-up. Grumpy thought it looked too crowded there and so rode to the next overpass. We just assumed he'd decided to ride straight home without us, as his nickname would sometimes profess. So we blew right by him in the rain, leaving him no choice but to ride home alone anyway.

This Sunday I tried sending him a text to meet us at the first rest stop after the Delaware Memorial Bridge. But he didn't see it. Surreptitiously, we finally caught up with him at the stop at the top of the Garden State Parkway. He was walking out as we were walking in.

Amazingly, Grumpy was gracious. We all had a good chuckle and Thumper apologized sincerely. New to group riding, he misunderstood communications protocol. Admittedly, it is hard to understand each other in full face helmets at 60 mph.

Thumper learned his lesson. Communications while riding takes time, so you build in lots of lead time. And you must get confirmation.

So when Token2, who had taken over the lead with me as wing man, promised to make one more gas stop along the Garden State Parkway, and then blew by all of them, I looked for his signal when we saw the two-miles-ahead sign for the last rest stop. He offered none. Nor did he tap his helmet at the one-mile sign. So I rode up alongside him and confirmed with a tap of my helmet, receiving a nod back of his.

We topped off our tanks at the pumps and gathered in the parking lot. Since Token2 would be exiting just after the Tappan Zee and I would be taking the lead, I asked Thumper if he had enough gas to get home to Norwalk. He answered yes, perhaps a bit insulted at first, then got the joke.

See you next week! That ride should be doable on any two tanks of gas. Hope you can join us Thumper. Otherwise I'll have to hold up the banner of reason in a country gone mad. Stratford departure 9:30 a.m.

Thumper on his single cylinder BMW. (Photo by Bernie Walsh.)

Thumper isn't the only one riding Polar Bears on one cylinder. (Photo by Bernie Walsh.)

Liberal wing of the CT Polar Bears, Chris and Paul.

Captain and Token holding down our table while the rest sign-in.

Ed, Fonz and Captain waiting for food.

Flight B leaders, Joan and Jim.

Flight A leaders Pat and John.

Grumpy's ride log.

"Outdoor" dining, closed in for winter.

Suiting up for the ride home.

Lovely Lewes and the light ship museum. Maybe a summer trip?

Longest Ride -- Lewes, Delaware

Week 2 Bears, from left: Long Distance Diva, Pogy, Captain and CT Blogger.

Motorcycle Polar Bear Blog, Ride to Irish Eyes Pub, Lewes, Del., Sunday, November 1, 2015.

By: Chris Loynd

You know you're a motorcyclist, a rider, when you ride about 550 miles, over 11 1/2 hours, for a one-hour lunch. That's how four of us spent our Sunday on the first day of November when daylight turned to standard time and gave us an extra hour.

Angling for less riding time after the earlier EST sunset, Pogy asked us to experiment with a half-hour earlier start. So we were off at 6:30 a.m. Yes, 6:30 a.m. In Pogy parlance: 06:30.

Fortunately I saw Joanna's e-mail Saturday afternoon. She was planning to be at the pickup spot at 8:00 a.m. We corresponded a bit and I ratcheted her back to 7 a.m.

With Token2 back in the old country, I got my chance to lead. It was an easy task with just four riders. We cranked, yes cranked, the NJ Turnpike start to finish.

I had planned to stop at the last rest stop, but Joanna signaled me so we stopped at the penultimate one. To pull the group over at the next rest stop we usually simply ride up next to the lead and tap our hand on the top of our helmet. But Joanna's from the city. She told me later in her hood that's the sign for cops.

So not knowing our custom she offered a more expressive signal. It wasn't just the pointing, it was the urgent little happy hoppy dance she offered in her saddle. As a parent I immediately got the message. I remember my kids doing that potty dance when they were two years old. It's the cutest thing riding with women.

We were all teasing her at the earlier-than-planned stop because her Harley windshield is covered with stickers she claims to have earned from Michael Kneebone.

This was the longest ride I've done on the ST1100. We've been getting to know each other. And I think we're close to coming to an understanding for long distance touring. I have a small Airhawk just under my butt where the seat scoops a bit then steps up for the passenger. With the blades on my engine guards I can get my too-long legs out a bit now and then. The bike is nearly right for 100-plus mile stints.

A previous owner installed Heli Bars. They appear eminently adjustable, but I don't know how. Pogy offered to help. And I think if I can get the grips just a bit closer to me it will be perfect.

I was truly amazed at how it sipped gas, even at speed. When my compatriots on Gold Wings were near empty, my tank was still half full. Average mileage reported on Fuelly is above 42 mpg for my 1997.  I can't be bothered to keep track. But with a 7.4 gallon tank the supposed 300 mile range per tank seems believable. That means I could make the 1,000 mile run to Daytona Beach with just four fill-ups, easy.

Hmmm, I may have to think about following in Joanna's tracks and do some long distance hauls next summer.

LD Diva was so busy kibitizing, she nearly missed lunch.

Pogy loves the camera!

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."

Polar Bear Lewes, Del., November 7, 2010

Lewes, Del., November 7, 2010

Part of the fun of Polar Bear riding is riding with friends. It is also one of the challenges. Our different riding habits and personalities make good blog fodder.

Russ, Carl and I rode down together on Saturday, a day early for our Sunday Polar Bear run to the club's self-acclaimed “South Pole” in Lewes, Del. (If you're a local, that's pronounced “lose,” not “Lewis.”)

Russ' brother lives on a farm in southern New Jersey. My folks live in Wilmington, Del. We both exited the turnpike at number two.

I was headed to my folks' home to do some chores for Mom, visit with Dad and play with Heidi their Schnauzerdoodle. Mom rewards me with scrapple breakfast. Russ and Carl I think skipped the chores, but got scrapple breakfast all the same. Carl even texted photo proof to me Sunday morning.

Scrapple is a Pennsylvania Dutch thing. My folks are from Lancaster County. I was actually born in Lancaster and lived in Intercourse for five years before we moved just over the line to Delaware. That State paid school teachers better and therefore my father's prospects (and not inconsequentially my own) improved.

Scrapple is traditionally made with all the parts of a pig that are not good enough to go into sausage. You mix what's left of the hog with oatmeal and spices and press it into blocks. Later you slice the blocks and fry it, hot, on both sides. It may be what some folks would call an “acquired” taste. But I grew up on the stuff.

My Grandfather Loynd was once a butcher and explained it this way, “You butcher the hog and cut out all the fine cuts, pork chops, loin, and such, plus the bacon. Then all the little trimmings and bits that are any good go into sausage. Next you collect up everything else and that makes scrapple. Then you sweep the floor and that makes puddin'.”

Russ and his brothers go in together to raise some pigs on the Jersey farm. They like scrapple so much they grind up the whole hog for it. That makes some mighty fine scrapple; I have had the pleasure of sampling such.

I once went through scrapple withdrawal when I lived in Milwaukee. I got so desperate I made some myself. I used pork tenderloin and it made some of the best scrapple I ever tasted. But it was a lot of work with the food processor.

Standing at the Stratford Dunkin' Saturday, visions of scrapple dancing in our heads, Russ and I began the parlay as to how we should organize our group ride. Even for just three riders it can be delicate negotiations. For my opening play I graciously conceded the lead to Russ.

But Russ countered, saying he wanted to sweep because the metal rods in his hand sometimes caused unexpected throttle surging and he would go shooting up in speed. “Uh, isn't that all the more reason to put you up front?” I asked. “I mean if you're going to suddenly go shooting up through the bikes.”

But what Russ meant is that it is easier for him if someone else sets the pace so he can follow.

I shouted over to Carl, “You okay with the rocking chair?” Carl responded, “Sofa!” Okay. We're off.

We had a nice ride down in reasonably light traffic. We made one comfort stop just after the turnpike un-split itself. Looking at the line at the pumps we decided to stretch our tanks to Exit 2.

At our comfort stop I suggested we could meet up again Sunday morning to resume our ride to Lewes. I had gone on Google Earth and found a Dunkin' Donuts on Route 13 just below I-295. Russ and Carl would be approaching from the east, I from the west. It seemed an easy place to reconvene.

The address was 1001 North DuPont Highway.

Perhaps it is a foible of my profession. I am often guilty of providing too much information. Attempting to ensure absolutely clear communication, I confuse my listeners by explaining something in greater and greater illustrative detail.

In that spirit, I cautioned the guys that our meeting place was on the southbound side of North DuPont Highway. Carl punched 1001 SOUTH DuPont Highway into his GPS Saturday night. And I never saw them again until Lewes.

Now Carl and Russ both passed lie detector tests, administered by the Delaware State Police, swearing that your faithful blogger told them the address was SOUTH DuPont highway. I don't think so even today. I even gave Carl a written note, which he acknowledged receiving. Still, I do have to admit I am reaching an age where I hear one thought in my head and somehow enunciate another, entirely different thought, through my mouth.

I described at length, in pictorial detail, with elaborate hand gestures, how they would come over the Delaware Memorial Bridge, exit onto 295, then turn south onto 13, and finally see the Dunkin' on their right. I described the pink and orange logo they would see, on the sign, at the facility, on Route 13, southbound.

The final result says something about the faith my fellow riders have in me. Russ and Carl blindly let their GPS take them down a dead end dirt road in the middle of the worst part of New Castle, Del., to a small church, on South DuPont Highway before they called me on the phone to express their confusion. Fortunately Russ says he was “saved” right there in the dirt parking lot as Carl and I sorted out the mishap via cell phone.

I took Carl's call standing on the berm in front of the Dunkin' overlooking Route 13, watching the rest of our guys blow by, all the way down from Connecticut, they having departed early Sunday morning.

Carl and I tried to coordinate a second meeting place. I proposed just after the toll booths after they cross the C&D canal. I even babbled on about what the bridge looked like, what a canal was, where we could meet after the tolls.

I stood on the shoulder of the road past the bridge tolls for 20 minutes. Neither Russ nor Carl appeared. Neither phone call nor text was received by me. I finally sent Carl a text to tell him I would see them in Lewes; his voice mail was accepting no inbound messages.

Turns out, Carl and Russ also saw our guys go by and decided to chase after them, and without so much as a “by your leave” to me.

When I finally arrived at Lewes, after waiting for Russ and Carl to never show, twice, I got all the excoriation about being late. Grumpy even took the group photo without me. Talk about insult on injury!

So this is the second time in as many rides my “pals” have left me behind and out. Maybe they're trying to tell me something?

I mean our guys were picking up random riders at rest stops on the way down. And they couldn't grab me on the way? They picked up another foreigner, Jim, from New York, when they pulled in for gas on the turnpike.

New Jersey Matt may have started something here with non-Connecticut, Connecticut Polar Bears. Who knows? Maybe someday in the future there will be a Connecticut location on the Polar Bear calendar.

Riding alone in my thoughts, I drifted back a few years in my mind. It felt good to me to be back on the Delmarva peninsula. (Delmarva stands for Delaware, Maryland and Virginia.)

My first job after graduating from college was here. I was running all over downstate Delaware, the Eastern Shore of Maryland and the Virginia peninsula writing stories for “The Delmarva Farmer” weekly newspaper.

Our copy deadline was Sunday at noon. I used to party Friday and Saturday nights with some girls I knew in high school who rented a house over in Sea Isle City, on the Jersey Shore. (“Jacks” had a soft ice cream machine at every corner of their Tiki bar that dispensed pina coladas.) Then early Sunday morning I would haul my butt onto the first Cape May to Lewes ferry, drive across Delaware, then across the Eastern Shore of Maryland to arrive bleary eyed, copy in hand, at the newspaper offices.

I would stay over in Easton Sunday night because our print deadline was noon Monday. We put the paper together in a mad frenzy Monday morning. These were pre-computer days with waxed galleys and literal cut and paste.

There was this typesetter girl on the night shift. She was kinda quiet and cute. Pretty, not in the hot babe way that young men seek, but attractive and trim. I noticed her. However the whole typesetting department was young girls. This was this one proofreader too. She was a hot babe type. Couldn't spell and was a critic of sentence structure. But who could get mad at her randomly rewriting my copy with a body like that? So I was too distracted to much notice Cynthia Trever.

It took a bit more effort on both our parts for me to discover that behind that quiet front of hers was a sharp wit and smart mind and a hidden feisty nature. She was nervous in some things, sure in others. She was independent. She asked for nothing and offered everything.

I danced with her at the company Christmas party, right about this time of year in 1979. But I didn't remember her. I danced with a lot of girls from work that night. The date I brought to the party didn't dance.

A week later at our more informal, back-shop, holiday party I was sitting on a concrete step to the press room, eating some oysters, chatting with my boss. That typesetter girl came up and said, “So Chris, when are you taking me dancing again?” Not missing a beat I said, "How about next Saturday?" We made the date.

After she left, my boss asked, “This happen to you often?” “Oh, all the time,” I replied.

Cynthia Trever and I ended up getting married after we got to know each other a lot better, sometimes over scrapple sandwiches at the H&G restaurant in Easton, on Route 50, northbound side.

Lewes, Del., Polar Bear Ride, Nov. 1

November 1, Lewes, Del.

As I often do for this run, I rode down to Wilmington, Del. Saturday to spend the night with my folks. It splits off a bit of distance for me on our longest ride of the Polar Bear season. Plus, taking it in two chunks, I don't have to get up so dang early for Sunday's ride down from Connecticut. Plus, plus, at this time of the year there can be quite a temperature difference between sunrise and a couple hours after.

Saturday I spent too much time puttering around at home, in part completing the blog from the previous Sunday's ride to Cape May. By the time I finally got going it was late afternoon. Saturday started partly sunny, progressed to mostly cloudy and all afternoon I was thinking the rain predicted for late day just might catch me if I waited too long to start. It did.

Freakishly warm, the temperature even after the sun went down was 70 degrees. Most of the ride was dry. Now and then I would hit a few areas where it had rained, recently enough for cars to be throwing spray. But drops from the sky did not actually fall on me until I was crossing the Commodore Barry Bridge from Jersey into Pennsylvania. It was like the Delaware River was a magic rain barrier.

Sometimes you get lucky. Twenty minutes' ride in mild rain and I was at my folks' house. I rode through the same showers that delayed the World Series game that night just a few miles north.
Arriving too late to join them, Mom saved a dinner plate for me even so. As always, she makes my favorites. Saturday night it was fried eggplant (except now it is heart-healthy baked) and stuffed mushrooms.

Friends of my folks were visiting. Mom and Dad have known their friend Judy since junior high school. Her friend Jim has been their friend for years now too.

Judy and Jim own a barbeque place in Gloucester, Mass. I haven't been there yet. But ever since reading “A Perfect Storm” I have wanted to see that famous fishing town.

Dad and the rest of us enjoyed the World Series. The Loynd family roots for the Phillies. Judy and Jim, Red Sox fans, are rooting for the Phillies too. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
It is a shame they lost, despite Utley's best efforts, I fear the New York machine, the best baseball that money can buy, is overwhelming. But as Stephen Colbert said, the Yankee victory is, "proof the free market system works!"

Next morning when the rest of the Connecticut Bears were saddling up in the cold dawn, I was enjoying scrapple for breakfast. (It's a Lancaster County thing.)

It was raining still Sunday morning. How did they fit a baseball game between bands of rain?

With the weather, cooler now that the front was moving through, I was in the mood to just motor down state. So I took the new Delaware Route 1 from Interstate 95 which nowadays basically makes a run to the beaches expressway all the way. Not like the old days I remember growing up in Wilmington when you had to stop-and-go your way through New Castle and Dover.

Arriving at our new “South Pole” venue, Irish Eyes Pub, I gingerly picked my way across the not-so-packed gravel parking lot to a place where I had enough strength to back the big Harley into a spot along a grey freight container.

No sooner was I off the bike and out of the helmet, here came my guys. I motioned them to where I was parked and offered a bit of reversing assistance, even had to help John H. with his lighter ST. He immediately made some joke about me “touching” a Honda. Hey, I even rode one once. John K. offered me his Gold Wing for a Polar Bear ride last year when my Harley was in the shop.

And if we are getting technical, I have spent hours and hours on Hondas, Suzukis and Kawis, if you include the training bikes in the Connecticut Rider Education Program. I am a Rider Coach.
Isn't that Honda Nighthawk a POS? Honda engineering? Drum brakes front and rear on a modern motorcycle? Really?

Maybe it isn't fair to judge the whole line by all its products. On the other hand, my Dad bought one of the first Civics sold in the U.S. That thing was as bad as the Nighthawk. It spent a lot of time in the shop. I hear the lawnmowers are pretty good.

Even so, the Honda ST seems like a nice bike. But I just don't see me riding with my heels tucked behind me all day.

On my Harley I can stretch out, feet on highway boards (not just pegs) mounted outboard on the engine guards. I can also sit up straight. Once in a while, I will even tuck my heels behind me, European style, toes on the back of the riding boards.

(This first segment I was able to write on my train commute to The Maritime Aquarium at Norwalk Monday morning. This will be the one way I can find the time to get this blog written.

Last Friday I tried the same thing. But Metro North showed up a couple 'o cars short. I got started on my minibook all the same but in Fairfield this giant old lady with a cane suddenly slammed herself into the middle seat next to me. When she shifted her hips to fit, she bruised mine against the wall of the train.

Some people take up more than their fair share of the planet.

Instead of sitting there smashed against the window seat for two more stops, I got up and stood until South Norwalk station stop set me free of the overcrowded car. Even with the minibook, it's kinda hard to type standing up.

Needless to say, this morning's ride was much more civil. I will pick up my narrative on the ride home.)

Back again . . .

So we saunter into the Irish Eyes Pub in Lewes, Del., the Grand Tour's "South Pole" to sign-in for our Polar Bear Points. Captain K. was ready with 31, enough to qualify for his rocker on his second ride.

Polar Bear Grand Poo-bah Bob Hartpence even memorialized John Kammerer's accomplishment on the Polar Bear Grand Tour site; check out last week's photos at the bottom, on the Grand Tour site: http://www.polarbeargrandtour.com/lew09.htm

“Captain” John K. accomplishes this feat by giving blood all summer in the name of the Bears. So it is hard to find fault with such dedication. Coming all the way from Connecticut, we earn about half the points we need to qualify on the first two rides. Add John K.'s blood points on top – oh and he also attended the District II Summer Corn Boil – and well, there you have it.

Even so, John K. almost shorted himself. Not only do you get two points for donating blood, you also get round trip mileage points if you are crazy enough to ride your motorcycle to the blood bank and back. John forgot to take credit for these mileage points, but Flight Leader Rich came and found us at lunch and called John back to his page in the book to tally up the extra credits.

And then we have Russ. Russ earned his Polar Bear patch years ago and a few rockers hence. Some years, when he knows family obligations will diminish his riding opportunities, Russ did not even sign up for the points. He just rode along for the fun of it. Can you imagine?

Well this year I guess Russ is feeling optimistic. In Cape May he signed up to earn his points. But when we arrived in Lewes, Russ' page was not in the book.

Because they are so many in number, the Polar Bears are broken into two “flights” labeled “A” and “B.” Most all the Connecticut Bears are in “B.”

When Russ' page was not in the “B” book he started getting all worked up, as only Russ can. Well, actually, Grumpy can get pretty worked up too. But, trust me on this, it is safer to laugh at Russ.

I even survived laughing at Russ when he was as angry as I have ever seen him.

We just completed the Iron Butt, 1,000 miles in 24 hours or less, ride. We may be on record for the ugliest accomplishment of this task. A disasterous early morning start idea, a lollygagging first half and a pouring rain storm in the last 20 miles had frayed everyone's nerves to the rawest edge of sanity.

Twenty-three-and-a-half hours later as we are gassing up and getting our final receipts, it turns out the odometers on John K. and Russ' bikes are showing just shy of 1,000 miles. Mine was a hair over.

John K. being so much the cross your t's and dot your i's kinda guy, starts on about how he damn well better qualify for the Iron Butt. Russ takes the criticism personally because Russ set up the ride. John was oblivious to Russ' growing blood pressure. Pretty soon they are nose to nose. Russ was dropping one leg back, squaring his hips, getting ready for action. He was quite the boxer on the Navy aircraft carrier during his shipboard days.

It was at this point Russ threw out the nastiest epithet he knew. Sputtering he shouts, “John . . . you were in the Navy! And I hate the Navy!” I roared with laughter. For someone who can curse like a Sailor, this was Russ' worst. The juxtaposition from what I expected and what Russ delivered was the funniest thing I have heard my friend say to this day.

Back in Lewes, Del., I suggested maybe they put Russ in Flight A since he had dropped out for a year or two. Well it turns out the new Flight A leader had taken Russ' application last week, but had not handed it over to our Flight B Leaders. Fortunately Russ' sheet was right there handy on the Flight A desk ready for insertion in the Flight B logbook.

Russ started grousing all the same, but Bob Hartpence cooled him fast by threatening to put Russ in Flight “C.”

Irish Eyes seemed nice enough and the food was good, if a bit slow in arriving. I ordered “bangers and mash” because it sounded so delightfully British. Imagine my surprise when it turns out to be just sausage, mashed potatoes and peas. Geeze! Back home in Stratford, Connecticut we call that sausage with mashed potatoes and peas. Being a marketing guy myself, however, I smiled admiringly, knowing how the right name can boost sales.

Johnny B. ordered fish and chips and it turned out to be fish with french fries. John K. and Russ ordered Irish stew and it turned out to be stew, so I guess they weren't fooled.

Happy with full bellies and bulging Polar Bear points sheets we posed for our weekly group picture then suited up for the long ride home.

If you read last week's blog, one of the things I promised was a review of my new Gerbing T-5 electric gloves, purchased from Len in Cape May. Well it was still too warm to turn them on. I did not even wear them on the ride down.

But for the ride home I pulled them on and plugged them in. Still it remained warm as we rode north. When we stopped for gas, just before the Delaware Memorial Bridge, it was one of those deals where we gassed up but then reassembled in a parking area. John K. had missed the turn for the bridge. So I knew I was going to get off the bike right away. Which meant after I gassed up, I just pulled on my gloves, rode over to the parking area and got off to offer the Captain a bit of local Delaware navigation advice, once a former resident of these parts myself.

We conferred. We mounted up. And off we went.

John ignored my advice, doggedly stuck to I-95 North, despite numerous signs pointing to “New Jersey, New York, Delaware Memorial Bridge.”

Grumpy finally flew up from the sweep position, threw a lariat over Captain's handlebars and led him off the proper exit.

Over the bridge now, onto the NJ Turnpike, we steamed for home.

As we reached north to the Garden State Parkway, and the clouds cleared just enough to show a sundown, it started to, gasp, get cold. Not Polar Bear cold. But chilly.

Here's my chance! I turned up the gloves with my new dual “temptroller” thermostat. My hands were warm enough. But not hot. For miles I fiddled with the switch. Weak.

In the last 30 miles to the top of the Garden State where we always stop for coffee, I was getting aggravated. My hands were getting cold.

Figuring the gloves and controller were new, I started blaming my 120,000 + miles Springer. How long does an alternator last? Maybe this thing just wasn't putting out the current. I am aggravated but forgiving. Next I try flipping the switch to turn off the passing lamps, hoping more current will be available to warm my fingers. No effect. Now I am figuring how, and who, and when, I can get it fixed.

As we pulled into the rest area to gas up I pulled off my glove and it came free immediately.

In my plan for a temporary on-off to talk with John K. at the last gas stop, way down in Delaware, I had not gone through the formal procedure of linking the gloves to the sleeves of my electric jacket. Electric gloves don't work without electricity.

We all had a good chuckle at that one. Of course there is not a rider who at some point hasn't left without plugging something in or has never ridden off with a saddlebag lid flopping because it was left unlatched.

When I did connect the gloves to the power source of my motorcycle, they performed wonderfully. Hey, I guess I learned the gloves are pretty well insulated too. They kept me warm even without electricity.

Unlike my old gloves, these heat instantly. You can feel the warmth all around your fingers. It wasn't really cold enough to give them a really good test. But hey, it's only the second ride of the season.

See this blog entry with photos at: http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_blog.htm

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