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.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Polar Bear Snydersville, PA, December 19, 2010
Snydersville (Stroudsburg), PA, December 19, 2010
By: Chris Loynd
It was just a really nice day for a Polar Bear motorcycle ride. A threatening snow storm stayed out to sea. Attendant clouds kept the temperatures above freezing, mostly above freezing.
Grumpy is back. I knew it was him as I approached the Dunkin' Donuts jump off point in Stratford Sunday morning because he was at the head of a line of bikes ready to pull onto Lordship Boulevard . . . without me! He has left without me before, just left me to ride on my own for the lack of a mere minute or two waiting for a late comrade.
I was not late this time. My GPS, hyper-accurate time was 8:30 a.m. Well, okay, that's a lie. It read 8:31 as I pulled up to the line of bikes poised to leave . . . without me, as I said.
My usual M.O. is to arrive just as our guys are suiting up to leave. Okay, so I cut it a bit tighter than usual last Sunday morning because my wife Cynthia's computer was still predicting snow. Worried, I waited for the Cablevision forecast as I suited up. The TV weatherman said no snow. And I was off.
After eight years, the rest of the guys usually cut me a bit of slack.
It's okay for Grumpy to be punctual. He's ex-military. And he's, well, particular, very, hence the nickname.
As for Pogy and Scott waiting not-so-patiently at the Darien rest stop, I once again attest that our line of bikes departed the Dunkin' at precisely 8:31. So I don't want to hear any more guff about us being late to you guys.
In my last blog post I explored in depth the features and foibles of GPS navigation for motorcycles. I am no tech wiz, but I am well read. As I understand it, timing is everything for synchronizing the two or three satellites in geosynchronous orbit above the earth in order to triangulate my motorcycle's exact position in the world. So the time displayed on my GPS is the most accurate time you can get.
It read 8:31 as I approached our guys ready to go. Grumpy and I exchanged very little. I said, “Welcome back!” He nodded, I think disapprovingly, and dropped his clutch. Captain waved me into place with a nod of his head. There's just no way we departed Dunkin' any later than 8:31:30, no matter what Pogy says about his certified travel time from Stratford to Darien.
Except for a bout of stop-and-go construction traffic on Route 80 headed west, we enjoyed an uneventful ride to the Pocono Mountains. My odometer read just exactly 150 miles, one-way. So I am hoping my Flight Leaders give me the extra point. Captain clocked something like 308 round trip, so maybe my odometer is running a bit shy.
We decided that is maybe too long a run for some of us older guys. Next long ride, we maybe need to build in a bathroom break. One of our guys joked that he couldn't wait and just went in his riding suit. That also helped solve the problem of cold toes, at least for a little while, he said.
My GPS would probably give me uber-accurate exact distance traveled. And I am sure it is in there somewhere imprinted on a memory chip. I just don't know how to find it. Guess I had better spend some Christmas holiday downtime trying to better learn how to use the dang thing.
I also upgraded my cell phone last week. That too comes with its learning curve. It has wonderful, whizzbang features. You just have to memorize the 10,000 key combinations, 3,000 screens and 12,000 so called short cuts in order to tap the phone's potential. And don't even get me started on the million-some apps.
Smart phone my a**! If it's so smart, why doesn't it intuitively know what I want? Oh, there's an app for that?
Fortunately, I did pretty quickly pick up how to make and receive phone calls. And unlike Captain, I can text.
Back on topic, we arrived in good order, early though. Fortunately the split pea soup showed up soon after we did. Walter Kern even made a video of ever-helpful Grumpy carrying the soup for Mrs. Schoch.
Mrs. Schoch was there managing the food, greeting the Polar Bears and spreading good will. Thank you again for hosting us!
Unfortunately, Schoch's was using their spacious upstairs for other things. So we did not get any opportunity to sit down and kibbutz with one another. We stood around downstairs, had a bit of food, drank a half-cup of coffee. Somehow, I managed to still be last out to our bikes for departure. (It wasn't my fault I got caught in the longer bathroom line.)
Fortunately Grumpy was along with his camera. Mine had a dead battery. So we still managed the group picture. I am sure, in a pinch, I could have taken the photo with my fancy new cell phone. It has an 8 megapixel camera built in. I do know how to take a picture with my phone. I just don't know where it goes after I take it, or how to get a picture from my phone to my computer.
Our ride home was smooth and uneventful. Grumpy proudly offered to buy the coffees at Chez GSP. He had a $20 Dunkin' Donuts gift card. But the Dunkin' on the Garden State Parkway is not a “participating vendor.” Grumpy was a good sport and bought all the same.
I am sure there is more that happened on our ride. I fell asleep on the couch when I got home, had two, no three now, consecutive Christmas parties since Sunday. Plus Pogy and I had a very interesting discussion about our jobs and companies that affected me profoundly. And that's all I can seem to remember from last Sunday. Maybe some of my fellow bears can chime in with a few remembrances of their own.
Our next ride is a whole two weeks away. Because Christmas and New Year's both fall on weekends, the Grand Tour has decided to forgo Sunday rides on those holidays.
So in the meanwhile a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all.
By: Chris Loynd
It was just a really nice day for a Polar Bear motorcycle ride. A threatening snow storm stayed out to sea. Attendant clouds kept the temperatures above freezing, mostly above freezing.
Grumpy is back. I knew it was him as I approached the Dunkin' Donuts jump off point in Stratford Sunday morning because he was at the head of a line of bikes ready to pull onto Lordship Boulevard . . . without me! He has left without me before, just left me to ride on my own for the lack of a mere minute or two waiting for a late comrade.
I was not late this time. My GPS, hyper-accurate time was 8:30 a.m. Well, okay, that's a lie. It read 8:31 as I pulled up to the line of bikes poised to leave . . . without me, as I said.
My usual M.O. is to arrive just as our guys are suiting up to leave. Okay, so I cut it a bit tighter than usual last Sunday morning because my wife Cynthia's computer was still predicting snow. Worried, I waited for the Cablevision forecast as I suited up. The TV weatherman said no snow. And I was off.
After eight years, the rest of the guys usually cut me a bit of slack.
It's okay for Grumpy to be punctual. He's ex-military. And he's, well, particular, very, hence the nickname.
As for Pogy and Scott waiting not-so-patiently at the Darien rest stop, I once again attest that our line of bikes departed the Dunkin' at precisely 8:31. So I don't want to hear any more guff about us being late to you guys.
In my last blog post I explored in depth the features and foibles of GPS navigation for motorcycles. I am no tech wiz, but I am well read. As I understand it, timing is everything for synchronizing the two or three satellites in geosynchronous orbit above the earth in order to triangulate my motorcycle's exact position in the world. So the time displayed on my GPS is the most accurate time you can get.
It read 8:31 as I approached our guys ready to go. Grumpy and I exchanged very little. I said, “Welcome back!” He nodded, I think disapprovingly, and dropped his clutch. Captain waved me into place with a nod of his head. There's just no way we departed Dunkin' any later than 8:31:30, no matter what Pogy says about his certified travel time from Stratford to Darien.
Except for a bout of stop-and-go construction traffic on Route 80 headed west, we enjoyed an uneventful ride to the Pocono Mountains. My odometer read just exactly 150 miles, one-way. So I am hoping my Flight Leaders give me the extra point. Captain clocked something like 308 round trip, so maybe my odometer is running a bit shy.
We decided that is maybe too long a run for some of us older guys. Next long ride, we maybe need to build in a bathroom break. One of our guys joked that he couldn't wait and just went in his riding suit. That also helped solve the problem of cold toes, at least for a little while, he said.
My GPS would probably give me uber-accurate exact distance traveled. And I am sure it is in there somewhere imprinted on a memory chip. I just don't know how to find it. Guess I had better spend some Christmas holiday downtime trying to better learn how to use the dang thing.
I also upgraded my cell phone last week. That too comes with its learning curve. It has wonderful, whizzbang features. You just have to memorize the 10,000 key combinations, 3,000 screens and 12,000 so called short cuts in order to tap the phone's potential. And don't even get me started on the million-some apps.
Smart phone my a**! If it's so smart, why doesn't it intuitively know what I want? Oh, there's an app for that?
Fortunately, I did pretty quickly pick up how to make and receive phone calls. And unlike Captain, I can text.
Back on topic, we arrived in good order, early though. Fortunately the split pea soup showed up soon after we did. Walter Kern even made a video of ever-helpful Grumpy carrying the soup for Mrs. Schoch.
Mrs. Schoch was there managing the food, greeting the Polar Bears and spreading good will. Thank you again for hosting us!
Unfortunately, Schoch's was using their spacious upstairs for other things. So we did not get any opportunity to sit down and kibbutz with one another. We stood around downstairs, had a bit of food, drank a half-cup of coffee. Somehow, I managed to still be last out to our bikes for departure. (It wasn't my fault I got caught in the longer bathroom line.)
Fortunately Grumpy was along with his camera. Mine had a dead battery. So we still managed the group picture. I am sure, in a pinch, I could have taken the photo with my fancy new cell phone. It has an 8 megapixel camera built in. I do know how to take a picture with my phone. I just don't know where it goes after I take it, or how to get a picture from my phone to my computer.
Our ride home was smooth and uneventful. Grumpy proudly offered to buy the coffees at Chez GSP. He had a $20 Dunkin' Donuts gift card. But the Dunkin' on the Garden State Parkway is not a “participating vendor.” Grumpy was a good sport and bought all the same.
I am sure there is more that happened on our ride. I fell asleep on the couch when I got home, had two, no three now, consecutive Christmas parties since Sunday. Plus Pogy and I had a very interesting discussion about our jobs and companies that affected me profoundly. And that's all I can seem to remember from last Sunday. Maybe some of my fellow bears can chime in with a few remembrances of their own.
Our next ride is a whole two weeks away. Because Christmas and New Year's both fall on weekends, the Grand Tour has decided to forgo Sunday rides on those holidays.
So in the meanwhile a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Polar Bear Montgomeryville, Pa.; December 5, 2010
Montgomeryville, PA; December 5, 2010
Polar Bear weather: 26 degrees to start, 29 to finish, don't think it ever broke 40.
By: Chris Loynd
Longtime Polar Bear Blog readers will know that over the years I have made good fun of GPS enabled ride leaders. Now I am one.
Pulling into the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford just as my fellow riders were dressing and getting organized, Captain and I discussed the ride and route. He asked “Who's leading?” like he didn't want to be the one. So I figured, “What the heck?” and rode out to the front of the group.
I wasn't really ready to lead.
Yes, I had looked at the MapQuest map when I formulated a departure time. I have a vague concept of where Pennsylvania lies. Fortunately, I had at least entered the destination address into my GPS as a precaution. (Thank you Bob V.)
I embraced one of these satellite receiver contraptions for my trip west. In the 7,500 miles and four weeks of our trip together, GPS and me, we fell in love. I am a convert. GPS is wonderful for a motorcycle.
Being lost in Cambridge, Mass. on the bike a few years back haunts me still. I had to stop the bike, fish the paper map out of my saddlebags, figure out where I was, memorize two or three turns to where I wanted to go. It took me six or eight of these confusing, mind-wrenching, memory-taxing stops to finally get back on the interstate, headed for home with a headache.
GPS puts the map in front of you. Nearly as helpful, it tells you how far to the next turn. Still, it has limitations.
Like most things computer, GPS comes with a learning curve. Sunday's ride clearly evidenced I have not climbed far enough up the curve.
GPS also has it's benefits. For one thing, if you are willing to surrender your destiny to a computer algorithm, GPS will take you through all kinds of interesting country. This facility has been the fodder of blogs past. Led by other CT Polar Bear GPS following leaders, we have explored the very depths of New Jersey farm country, toured some of its nastiest cities and seen paved roads suddenly turn to dirt, all at the behest of someone's GPS.
My turn at GPS roulette came Sunday. I led us all the way out Route 202 from Interstate 287. In the past we have taken the faster Interstate 78 west, then dropped down to Montgomeryville.
The 202 is a pretty ride, actually. Once you clear the stoplights, there for a while the scenery looks nice as you transition from Jersey pharmacy land to horse country to suburban ticky-tacky boxes country.
Across the bridge in New Hope, Pa., we rode past beautiful old Pennsylvania stone houses. Downtown Doylestown was actually quite charming. Apparently my GPS felt it was faster to go right through the center of town than to bypass it on the expressway.
Russ accused me of having my GPS set to “shortest route” (or maybe “most scenic”) instead of “fastest route.” I confirmed my affirmation when I got home. In fact it was set to “fastest,” although you could not have proven it by my ride navigation last Sunday. After our summer adventure together, my GPS and me, perhaps it suffers from a lack of scenery on our urban expressway-dominated Polar Bear rides.
We did, in fact, reach Montgomeryville Cycle Center. And some of our riders commented, “Well we have never gone that way before.”
Thanks to my GPS, we came at the dealership destination from a completely different direction. I'm not sure of the compass heading. I'll have to look at a paper map to figure out how we got there.
The change in approach meant I missed the turnoff. On all our previous rides, the dealership came up on the left, which is where I was looking when it quite suddenly appeared on the right. I felt it would have been unsafe to get on the brakes too hard, being at the head of a line of bikes. So I dove for the shoulder. Everyone else made the turn to the dealership.
Russ, my wing man, could have made the turn too. But Russ is one of the best wing men in motorcycling. And just like Maverick in “Top Gun,” Russ knows: you never leave your wing man. So he rode twenty miles further with me (Russ said it was more like 50 or a hundred) until we could find an exit ramp and turnaround. Russ will follow you up a tree if he is your wing man.
When I finally arrived at the Polar Bear destination, Token quipped, “We've already taken the group photo without you.” But he was only kidding.
Motgomeryville Cycle Center offered warming beef chili with all the fixin's, including corn bread. Yummy! They also served hot dogs, coffee and water. Seating was at a premium, but eventually we found a spot for all of us together at the end of a table.
Bob Hartpence, Polar Bear Grand Pooh-bah, stopped by with some interesting comments about his challenges trying to keep in touch with members via e-mail blasts. All I can say, is that this blog is 100% opt-in. If you don't like it, don't read it. Geeze! Even bikers are going politically correct?
By the way, this blog is open to commentary. The BlogSpot version allows you to post a comment right then and there. The version with photos requires you to send me an e-mail.
It was fun to see Token2 regale in this plastic-dominated store filled with metric motorcycles. He truly was happy in his element. He said to me, “Look at this half of the shop: no chrome!” A token no more, these were HIS people!
Unfortunately, he had to nestle amongst Harleys for the ride home.
Before we departed, Token2 had to purchase a new controller for his heated garments. When we got to our stop at top of the GSP (yes, I did finally lead us home), turns out John J. has had trouble with his as well. John J. sent his controller back to Gerbing and the sent it back with a patched wire. John J. is still not happy.
Considering I am a Polar Bear rider that hates the cold, I think I will purchase a second controller as back-up.
My GPS and I agreed upon a homeward route. I wanted to take the more express Interstate 78 back. Simply by hitting the “home” button, my GPS showed me a reasonable route north to I-78 then east to I-287. We had an accord and off I went, bikes trailing behind me.
Unfortunately, most of our bikes were running on fumes, a gas stop sorely needed. I passed up a WAWA, thinking a few of my guys might not appreciate an off-brand fill-up.
(We did not have Grumpy with us. That's significant because he insists not only on brandname gasoline, but also one made from oil pumped under the proper geopolitical circumstances. Hugo Chavez, you listening?)
But the road past the WAWA started looking pretty rural and I was afraid we might not find another gas station. So I circled the procession with a "U" turn, always a move open to derision, and reversed my line of march back to WAWA.
Apparently my GPS took my indecision to indicate a change in plans. And without my knowing it, the GPS took it upon itself to change my route. Captain later said he believes the GPS calculates your route depending upon which way the bike is pointed at the time.
Between the u-turn and then riding around through the filling station, I guess I performed the equivalent of spinning around the blindfolded player in blind man's bluff. My GPS got confused.
The computer still took us home, but sent me back exactly the way I came, stoplights and all.
Sometimes it's hard to tell what or who is in charge, the computer or the user. Speaking of which, I can't wait to see the new Tron movie. Maybe there is a future version where a driver gets sucked into his GPS.
Now that most all our riders are GPS equipped (I was one of the last holdouts) they at least know what I am up to, floundering around at the head of the line as I was. They can follow my every foible, turn-by-turn.
A full line of bikes behind you definitely limits your experimental navigation options. On my own, I would not have sweated the turnaround. I would have simply taken the next State Route indicating “north,” confident in eventually running into I-78.
One advantage of GPS is that you lose your fear of getting lost. My Garmin motorcycle version even has an “off road” function. I can't wait to try that out with Russ at my side. He loves dirt and gravel roads.
Polar Bear weather: 26 degrees to start, 29 to finish, don't think it ever broke 40.
By: Chris Loynd
Longtime Polar Bear Blog readers will know that over the years I have made good fun of GPS enabled ride leaders. Now I am one.
Pulling into the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford just as my fellow riders were dressing and getting organized, Captain and I discussed the ride and route. He asked “Who's leading?” like he didn't want to be the one. So I figured, “What the heck?” and rode out to the front of the group.
I wasn't really ready to lead.
Yes, I had looked at the MapQuest map when I formulated a departure time. I have a vague concept of where Pennsylvania lies. Fortunately, I had at least entered the destination address into my GPS as a precaution. (Thank you Bob V.)
I embraced one of these satellite receiver contraptions for my trip west. In the 7,500 miles and four weeks of our trip together, GPS and me, we fell in love. I am a convert. GPS is wonderful for a motorcycle.
Being lost in Cambridge, Mass. on the bike a few years back haunts me still. I had to stop the bike, fish the paper map out of my saddlebags, figure out where I was, memorize two or three turns to where I wanted to go. It took me six or eight of these confusing, mind-wrenching, memory-taxing stops to finally get back on the interstate, headed for home with a headache.
GPS puts the map in front of you. Nearly as helpful, it tells you how far to the next turn. Still, it has limitations.
Like most things computer, GPS comes with a learning curve. Sunday's ride clearly evidenced I have not climbed far enough up the curve.
GPS also has it's benefits. For one thing, if you are willing to surrender your destiny to a computer algorithm, GPS will take you through all kinds of interesting country. This facility has been the fodder of blogs past. Led by other CT Polar Bear GPS following leaders, we have explored the very depths of New Jersey farm country, toured some of its nastiest cities and seen paved roads suddenly turn to dirt, all at the behest of someone's GPS.
My turn at GPS roulette came Sunday. I led us all the way out Route 202 from Interstate 287. In the past we have taken the faster Interstate 78 west, then dropped down to Montgomeryville.
The 202 is a pretty ride, actually. Once you clear the stoplights, there for a while the scenery looks nice as you transition from Jersey pharmacy land to horse country to suburban ticky-tacky boxes country.
Across the bridge in New Hope, Pa., we rode past beautiful old Pennsylvania stone houses. Downtown Doylestown was actually quite charming. Apparently my GPS felt it was faster to go right through the center of town than to bypass it on the expressway.
Russ accused me of having my GPS set to “shortest route” (or maybe “most scenic”) instead of “fastest route.” I confirmed my affirmation when I got home. In fact it was set to “fastest,” although you could not have proven it by my ride navigation last Sunday. After our summer adventure together, my GPS and me, perhaps it suffers from a lack of scenery on our urban expressway-dominated Polar Bear rides.
We did, in fact, reach Montgomeryville Cycle Center. And some of our riders commented, “Well we have never gone that way before.”
Thanks to my GPS, we came at the dealership destination from a completely different direction. I'm not sure of the compass heading. I'll have to look at a paper map to figure out how we got there.
The change in approach meant I missed the turnoff. On all our previous rides, the dealership came up on the left, which is where I was looking when it quite suddenly appeared on the right. I felt it would have been unsafe to get on the brakes too hard, being at the head of a line of bikes. So I dove for the shoulder. Everyone else made the turn to the dealership.
Russ, my wing man, could have made the turn too. But Russ is one of the best wing men in motorcycling. And just like Maverick in “Top Gun,” Russ knows: you never leave your wing man. So he rode twenty miles further with me (Russ said it was more like 50 or a hundred) until we could find an exit ramp and turnaround. Russ will follow you up a tree if he is your wing man.
When I finally arrived at the Polar Bear destination, Token quipped, “We've already taken the group photo without you.” But he was only kidding.
Motgomeryville Cycle Center offered warming beef chili with all the fixin's, including corn bread. Yummy! They also served hot dogs, coffee and water. Seating was at a premium, but eventually we found a spot for all of us together at the end of a table.
Bob Hartpence, Polar Bear Grand Pooh-bah, stopped by with some interesting comments about his challenges trying to keep in touch with members via e-mail blasts. All I can say, is that this blog is 100% opt-in. If you don't like it, don't read it. Geeze! Even bikers are going politically correct?
By the way, this blog is open to commentary. The BlogSpot version allows you to post a comment right then and there. The version with photos requires you to send me an e-mail.
It was fun to see Token2 regale in this plastic-dominated store filled with metric motorcycles. He truly was happy in his element. He said to me, “Look at this half of the shop: no chrome!” A token no more, these were HIS people!
Unfortunately, he had to nestle amongst Harleys for the ride home.
Before we departed, Token2 had to purchase a new controller for his heated garments. When we got to our stop at top of the GSP (yes, I did finally lead us home), turns out John J. has had trouble with his as well. John J. sent his controller back to Gerbing and the sent it back with a patched wire. John J. is still not happy.
Considering I am a Polar Bear rider that hates the cold, I think I will purchase a second controller as back-up.
My GPS and I agreed upon a homeward route. I wanted to take the more express Interstate 78 back. Simply by hitting the “home” button, my GPS showed me a reasonable route north to I-78 then east to I-287. We had an accord and off I went, bikes trailing behind me.
Unfortunately, most of our bikes were running on fumes, a gas stop sorely needed. I passed up a WAWA, thinking a few of my guys might not appreciate an off-brand fill-up.
(We did not have Grumpy with us. That's significant because he insists not only on brandname gasoline, but also one made from oil pumped under the proper geopolitical circumstances. Hugo Chavez, you listening?)
But the road past the WAWA started looking pretty rural and I was afraid we might not find another gas station. So I circled the procession with a "U" turn, always a move open to derision, and reversed my line of march back to WAWA.
Apparently my GPS took my indecision to indicate a change in plans. And without my knowing it, the GPS took it upon itself to change my route. Captain later said he believes the GPS calculates your route depending upon which way the bike is pointed at the time.
Between the u-turn and then riding around through the filling station, I guess I performed the equivalent of spinning around the blindfolded player in blind man's bluff. My GPS got confused.
The computer still took us home, but sent me back exactly the way I came, stoplights and all.
Sometimes it's hard to tell what or who is in charge, the computer or the user. Speaking of which, I can't wait to see the new Tron movie. Maybe there is a future version where a driver gets sucked into his GPS.
Now that most all our riders are GPS equipped (I was one of the last holdouts) they at least know what I am up to, floundering around at the head of the line as I was. They can follow my every foible, turn-by-turn.
A full line of bikes behind you definitely limits your experimental navigation options. On my own, I would not have sweated the turnaround. I would have simply taken the next State Route indicating “north,” confident in eventually running into I-78.
One advantage of GPS is that you lose your fear of getting lost. My Garmin motorcycle version even has an “off road” function. I can't wait to try that out with Russ at my side. He loves dirt and gravel roads.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Polar Bear Hopewell, NJ; November 28, 2010
November 28, 2010; Hopewell, NJ
By: Chris Loynd
It was a glorious day for polar bearing. Temperatures starting in the thirties had me installing my hippo hands that morning. However the sun was bright and the day warmed to near fifty degrees. I hardly used my electrics at all on the ride home.
Our destination kept us on Interstate 287, a commuter relief highway that runs well west of the New Jersey Turnpike and Garden State Parkway madness. I-287 has its scenic spots. But then we exited onto Route 202 south for a bit of that “strip mall” scenery that pervades the Garden State. Eventually we got off 202 after passing through pharmacy land (also a New Jersey staple) and finally had a scenic ride through farm and horse country. It was a nice finish to the ride down. Coming from the north, we avoided any detour issues in Hopewell proper, farther south of Hillbilly Hall.
We were light, just four bikes: Pogy, Captain, Jim and I. Fearing traffic, some of our guys tried a scenic northern ride. Mac was going to join us but got a better offer at the last minute.
At Dunkin' in Stratford, Captain and I decided it was a good opportunity to have someone else lead and sweep to get a feel for it with our group. So we figured to ask whoever we met at the rest stop in Darien to take over. Pulling off we found Pogy and Jim.
Then to my dismay, but not surprise, I was no sooner stopped than Captain was leading the other two down the on-ramp. I had wanted to stop a moment because I had plugged my electrics into the wrong outlet. I was wearing my Gerbing outer jacket, which isn't much good below 50 degrees and underneath my electric jacket liner. My gloves were plugged into the sleeves of the electric liner. Back at Dunkin' I had plugged into the outer jacket which was providing minimal relief for my body and none for my hands.
Not wanting to lose the group, I chased them out of the rest stop. Then I jetted ahead to catch up to the free-running Captain, and tapping the top of my helmet pulled him, and the others onto the shoulder. I shouted my explanation, but with helmets who knows how much is heard?
As I fiddled with my electrical connections, Captain apparently recalled our Dunkin' conversation. He then pulled up next to Pogy and as we left the shoulder, Pogy was now leading and Jim was sweep. I was Pogy's wing man and Captain fell in behind me.
Pogy did a fine job. He kept a nice and steady pace. He avoided excessive lane changes. Except for missing one of those #%^@* New Jersey jug handles, he was fairly flawless.
I kept as steady in my position as I could to help him out. If you are lead bike, but your wing man is not attentive, you lose the ability to make subtle changes in speed to allow for merging cars, passing, etc. Instead, the wing man becomes the de facto lead rider.
Captain vacillated up and back a bit. But the Captain does that. Usually he is fiddling with something on his bike: GPS, Citizens Band Radio, Weather Receiver, Radar, Sonar, whatever. He has his Road King and Gold Wing loaded with gadgets.
(What a s**t show this MetroNorth railroad offers! I generally like to write my blog on my Monday, sometimes Tuesday, commute from Stratford to Norwalk. This morning I am sitting in an unheated car. It's the second such cold trip this month. The best thing you can say about the train is it is slightly better than the disaster known as I-95.)
Hillbilly Hall was warm and inviting. We had a nice lunch next to a beautiful fire. Cream of broccoli soup was especially delightful. The Ruben was tasty and nicely broiled with the cheese crisp around the edges. Pogy asked the waitress if the sandwich was good here before he ordered. She assured him it was. After she left Captain wondered aloud if she would have said differently. Jim said his experience is that now and then he has encountered honest waitresses who suggested he make another choice. Fortunately, our waitress was telling the truth, fully backed by the kitchen, and she delivered three Ruben sandwiches with crisp fries. Captain had chicken, as always.
Lunchtime conversation drifted dangerously into politics. It started with airport screening. Captain stated he did not feel anyone had a right to avoid the pat downs and low dose x-rays. I suggested such rights were in something called The Constitution and Bill of Rights.
Then we got into 9-11 and whether or not Muslim countries should have apologized. Pogy has considerable dealings throughout the world, including Muslim countries, and his take is that most Muslims are mortified at the portrayal of their religion as terrorist.
My thought is that all religions are terrorist, or at least can be bent to those purposes. No other human invention has the ability to pacify the masses while simultaneously spurring them to worldwide domination. In our lunch conversation, I pointed out it was the Christians that started the Crusades, not the Muslims.
(We all agreed how conveniently history is forgotten or ignored.)
Has the Catholic Church ever apologized for the Spanish Inquisition or witch trials? They excommunicated Galileo for having the temerity to suggest Earth was not the center of the Universe held him in house arrest for the rest of his life, then banished him to purgatory, if you believe in such a thing. He was then stuck there 400 years until Pope John Paul II admitted the church made a mistake.
So maybe the Saudis have a bit of time still to formulate their response.
America has yet to apologize to its Indians or the Vietnamese. Yet we allow casinos as recompense to the former and buy shrimp and sneakers from the latter.
One of the fun things about writing this blog is getting in the last word. But you are welcome to offer you insights. You can e-mail them to me for the photo blog, or post them yourself on the Blog Spot version. I ask only that you avoid profanity and any direct slander of your fellow motorcycle riders.
It's amazing, isn't it, how something as simple as riding motorcycles can bring together such disparate views in a common purpose. We come from all different strata of life, with wide ranging opinions on politics and religion, yet we can agree on riding procedures and lunch, and sometimes, on avoiding traffic.
So we figured to move with alacrity from Hillbilly Hall to avoid traffic, deciding to skip the traditional coffee stop on the return trip as well. Turns out the only thing we had to fear was fear itself.
We cruised nicely up 287 north. Pogy went to follow his GPS' instruction to take 78 to the George Washington Bridge. But as the off-ramp approached, he saw me going wide to stay on 287 and he cut back over.
Approaching the intersection of the Garden State Parkway and I-287 we hit some slow traffic. Maybe we did eight miles of slow traffic. Of that, only the smallest part was stop-and-go. For the most part we putted along feet-up. Once past the exit for the Palisades Parkway, things picked up nicely.
Really the worst traffic we hit was in Connecticut. But that is always the case. I have traveled around this country and Canada, by motorcycle and car, and invariably the worst traffic jams are in this over packed state of ours. You can sail past New York City and still get slammed on I-95 approaching Stamford, the Merrit Parkway approaching Greenwich or I-84 approaching Danbury, in the middle of the night, on a weekday. There's no easy way in or out of this frickin' state.
So it was Trumbull Mall traffic that slammed us hardest. We were on the Merritt Parkway. Fortunately, I had Captain who knows every back road in and around Bridgeport. We tolerated the parkway traffic only long enough to catch the Route 59 exit in Fairfield. Captain, who I am sure enjoyed the opportunity to show off his local navigation skills, led us over one road and down the next 'till we popped out in Stratford with but a trifle of stop signs and stop lights impeding our progress.
It was doubly enjoyable for me because I followed Captain all the way to a convenient to both of us gas station and then accepted his invitation to visit his home, currently under extensive renovations.
Captain is taking his abode off the grid. A new roof, turned and reoriented to catch the southern exposure, is covered in solar panels for heat, hot water and electricity. He confidently said that when completed he will be selling electricity back to the power company. He has a battery array that will support his home, refrigerator, microwave, TV, et. al., for three days bereft of sunshine. Sort of like a submarine on land, if you will.
Me, I am perhaps a fatalist instead of a survivalist. When the apocalypse comes, I am more in mind to watch it unfurl with a glass of good port and a fine cigar. But if you want to run and hide for a chance to emerge in the smoldering aftermath, here's Captain's home address: 1313 Mockingbird Lane, what?, you thought I would really do that to one of my riding buddies? Besides, Captain would probably shoot you anyway. He wouldn't want to. But in dire circumstances . . .well, did you read last week's blog?
Meanwhile, if the end of the world holds off until this summer, Captain and I fantasized about a CT Polar Bear party on his newly-built deck, overlooking his newly-built dock on the Housatonic River. Maybe Pogy can bring his boat up and offer some party cruises as well?
If the world still exists this Sunday, and the weather's amenable, I plan on riding to Montgomeryville Cycle Center. It's one of our longer rides, famous for good food and bad weather. Here's hoping we get lucky on both.
By: Chris Loynd
It was a glorious day for polar bearing. Temperatures starting in the thirties had me installing my hippo hands that morning. However the sun was bright and the day warmed to near fifty degrees. I hardly used my electrics at all on the ride home.
Our destination kept us on Interstate 287, a commuter relief highway that runs well west of the New Jersey Turnpike and Garden State Parkway madness. I-287 has its scenic spots. But then we exited onto Route 202 south for a bit of that “strip mall” scenery that pervades the Garden State. Eventually we got off 202 after passing through pharmacy land (also a New Jersey staple) and finally had a scenic ride through farm and horse country. It was a nice finish to the ride down. Coming from the north, we avoided any detour issues in Hopewell proper, farther south of Hillbilly Hall.
We were light, just four bikes: Pogy, Captain, Jim and I. Fearing traffic, some of our guys tried a scenic northern ride. Mac was going to join us but got a better offer at the last minute.
At Dunkin' in Stratford, Captain and I decided it was a good opportunity to have someone else lead and sweep to get a feel for it with our group. So we figured to ask whoever we met at the rest stop in Darien to take over. Pulling off we found Pogy and Jim.
Then to my dismay, but not surprise, I was no sooner stopped than Captain was leading the other two down the on-ramp. I had wanted to stop a moment because I had plugged my electrics into the wrong outlet. I was wearing my Gerbing outer jacket, which isn't much good below 50 degrees and underneath my electric jacket liner. My gloves were plugged into the sleeves of the electric liner. Back at Dunkin' I had plugged into the outer jacket which was providing minimal relief for my body and none for my hands.
Not wanting to lose the group, I chased them out of the rest stop. Then I jetted ahead to catch up to the free-running Captain, and tapping the top of my helmet pulled him, and the others onto the shoulder. I shouted my explanation, but with helmets who knows how much is heard?
As I fiddled with my electrical connections, Captain apparently recalled our Dunkin' conversation. He then pulled up next to Pogy and as we left the shoulder, Pogy was now leading and Jim was sweep. I was Pogy's wing man and Captain fell in behind me.
Pogy did a fine job. He kept a nice and steady pace. He avoided excessive lane changes. Except for missing one of those #%^@* New Jersey jug handles, he was fairly flawless.
I kept as steady in my position as I could to help him out. If you are lead bike, but your wing man is not attentive, you lose the ability to make subtle changes in speed to allow for merging cars, passing, etc. Instead, the wing man becomes the de facto lead rider.
Captain vacillated up and back a bit. But the Captain does that. Usually he is fiddling with something on his bike: GPS, Citizens Band Radio, Weather Receiver, Radar, Sonar, whatever. He has his Road King and Gold Wing loaded with gadgets.
(What a s**t show this MetroNorth railroad offers! I generally like to write my blog on my Monday, sometimes Tuesday, commute from Stratford to Norwalk. This morning I am sitting in an unheated car. It's the second such cold trip this month. The best thing you can say about the train is it is slightly better than the disaster known as I-95.)
Hillbilly Hall was warm and inviting. We had a nice lunch next to a beautiful fire. Cream of broccoli soup was especially delightful. The Ruben was tasty and nicely broiled with the cheese crisp around the edges. Pogy asked the waitress if the sandwich was good here before he ordered. She assured him it was. After she left Captain wondered aloud if she would have said differently. Jim said his experience is that now and then he has encountered honest waitresses who suggested he make another choice. Fortunately, our waitress was telling the truth, fully backed by the kitchen, and she delivered three Ruben sandwiches with crisp fries. Captain had chicken, as always.
Lunchtime conversation drifted dangerously into politics. It started with airport screening. Captain stated he did not feel anyone had a right to avoid the pat downs and low dose x-rays. I suggested such rights were in something called The Constitution and Bill of Rights.
Then we got into 9-11 and whether or not Muslim countries should have apologized. Pogy has considerable dealings throughout the world, including Muslim countries, and his take is that most Muslims are mortified at the portrayal of their religion as terrorist.
My thought is that all religions are terrorist, or at least can be bent to those purposes. No other human invention has the ability to pacify the masses while simultaneously spurring them to worldwide domination. In our lunch conversation, I pointed out it was the Christians that started the Crusades, not the Muslims.
(We all agreed how conveniently history is forgotten or ignored.)
Has the Catholic Church ever apologized for the Spanish Inquisition or witch trials? They excommunicated Galileo for having the temerity to suggest Earth was not the center of the Universe held him in house arrest for the rest of his life, then banished him to purgatory, if you believe in such a thing. He was then stuck there 400 years until Pope John Paul II admitted the church made a mistake.
So maybe the Saudis have a bit of time still to formulate their response.
America has yet to apologize to its Indians or the Vietnamese. Yet we allow casinos as recompense to the former and buy shrimp and sneakers from the latter.
One of the fun things about writing this blog is getting in the last word. But you are welcome to offer you insights. You can e-mail them to me for the photo blog, or post them yourself on the Blog Spot version. I ask only that you avoid profanity and any direct slander of your fellow motorcycle riders.
It's amazing, isn't it, how something as simple as riding motorcycles can bring together such disparate views in a common purpose. We come from all different strata of life, with wide ranging opinions on politics and religion, yet we can agree on riding procedures and lunch, and sometimes, on avoiding traffic.
So we figured to move with alacrity from Hillbilly Hall to avoid traffic, deciding to skip the traditional coffee stop on the return trip as well. Turns out the only thing we had to fear was fear itself.
We cruised nicely up 287 north. Pogy went to follow his GPS' instruction to take 78 to the George Washington Bridge. But as the off-ramp approached, he saw me going wide to stay on 287 and he cut back over.
Approaching the intersection of the Garden State Parkway and I-287 we hit some slow traffic. Maybe we did eight miles of slow traffic. Of that, only the smallest part was stop-and-go. For the most part we putted along feet-up. Once past the exit for the Palisades Parkway, things picked up nicely.
Really the worst traffic we hit was in Connecticut. But that is always the case. I have traveled around this country and Canada, by motorcycle and car, and invariably the worst traffic jams are in this over packed state of ours. You can sail past New York City and still get slammed on I-95 approaching Stamford, the Merrit Parkway approaching Greenwich or I-84 approaching Danbury, in the middle of the night, on a weekday. There's no easy way in or out of this frickin' state.
So it was Trumbull Mall traffic that slammed us hardest. We were on the Merritt Parkway. Fortunately, I had Captain who knows every back road in and around Bridgeport. We tolerated the parkway traffic only long enough to catch the Route 59 exit in Fairfield. Captain, who I am sure enjoyed the opportunity to show off his local navigation skills, led us over one road and down the next 'till we popped out in Stratford with but a trifle of stop signs and stop lights impeding our progress.
It was doubly enjoyable for me because I followed Captain all the way to a convenient to both of us gas station and then accepted his invitation to visit his home, currently under extensive renovations.
Captain is taking his abode off the grid. A new roof, turned and reoriented to catch the southern exposure, is covered in solar panels for heat, hot water and electricity. He confidently said that when completed he will be selling electricity back to the power company. He has a battery array that will support his home, refrigerator, microwave, TV, et. al., for three days bereft of sunshine. Sort of like a submarine on land, if you will.
Me, I am perhaps a fatalist instead of a survivalist. When the apocalypse comes, I am more in mind to watch it unfurl with a glass of good port and a fine cigar. But if you want to run and hide for a chance to emerge in the smoldering aftermath, here's Captain's home address: 1313 Mockingbird Lane, what?, you thought I would really do that to one of my riding buddies? Besides, Captain would probably shoot you anyway. He wouldn't want to. But in dire circumstances . . .well, did you read last week's blog?
Meanwhile, if the end of the world holds off until this summer, Captain and I fantasized about a CT Polar Bear party on his newly-built deck, overlooking his newly-built dock on the Housatonic River. Maybe Pogy can bring his boat up and offer some party cruises as well?
If the world still exists this Sunday, and the weather's amenable, I plan on riding to Montgomeryville Cycle Center. It's one of our longer rides, famous for good food and bad weather. Here's hoping we get lucky on both.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Polar Bear Port Jervis, NY; November 21, 2010
Polar Bear Port Jervis, NY; November 21, 2010
By: Chris Loynd
Well the chill is in the air, but not yet the winter. I still have not installed my hippo hands. Fonz got a new set and I like the way they fit over his master cylinder. He got the actual, branded, Hippo Hands. I have a knockoff pair.
Fonz had his electrics this time, but I didn't get a chance to get his report on how he liked them. More on that later in the blog.
Pogy had navigation problems. Fortunately, he had some good bikes to lead him to and fro. Every week I send out an alert e-mail to our Connecticut and affiliated Polar Bears. In that e-mail I detail our destination and departure time. For years now I have repeated the same line, over and over, that we meet at the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, just off I-95, Exit 30, at the corner of Lordship Blvd. and Honeyspot Rd. So last week I finally got tired of repeating myself, figured everyone knew the Dunkin' by now, and merely said we would meet at the Dunkin' on Lordship Blvd. In so doing, we almost lost Pogy before we started.
My first clue to Pogy's navigation issues should have been a couple days earlier when he asked if I meant to say we were going to Port Jervis in New Jersey, not New York. I flippantly replied that we would stop at the first Port Jervis we came to on Interstate 84.
Port Jervis, New York, is right at the confluence of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. So I figured Pogy was looking at a map and was simply mistakenly identifying the state.
Turns out when we got a chance to talk at lunch in Port Jervis, NY, he was thinking of Port Jarvis, NJ. He was headed for the Jersey shore. Glad he didn't set his sights on that one! And by the way, Google has never heard of the place!
I guess he was consulting his naval charts instead of land maps.
At the Cornucopia, he made a disparaging comment such that Port Jervis must not be much of a port because it is inland. In fact it was once a very important port on the Delaware River, doubly so in 1828 when the Hudson and Delaware canal was completed. The canal created a highly profitable conduit for Pennsylvania anthracite coal from the Moosic mountains to New York City. It offered an American answer to problems caused by importation of British bituminous coal. The city was renamed from the Indian settlement inspired Mahackamack to Port Jervis in honor of John Bloomfield Jervis, an engineer on the canal project.
Port Jervis' other claims to fame include being raided and burned before the Batle of Minisink in 1779 and for a famous lynching in 1892. More recently Port Jervis was named #1 coolest small town by Budget Magazine.
Maybe the confusion is because Pogy has the heart of a waterman. He has a boat for pleasure cruising. But he also rides a working boat for leisure. When he's not fishing for helicopter buyers, his idea of a good time is the kind of work most people say is a very tough way to make a living. I forget if it was dredging for oysters or pulling lobster traps. It is hard, wet, often cold work, generally started before dawn and pursued in all weather. Long Island Sound ain't exactly “Deadliest Catch,” still it is tough stuff, double tough. But Pogy does it for fun.
Meanwhile, the one week I don't give the exact Dunkin' meeting location in my pre-ride e-mail, Pogy decides to ride up from Norwalk to meet us in Stratford and is waiting at another Dunkin' in Stratford. (Usually we pick him up en route at the Darien rest stop on I-95.) Pogy said he thought I meant this other, particular Dunkin' on Lordship Blvd. But no matter how you fold the map, he was sitting at the corner of Main St. and Access Rd. He did get the right town, thank heavens.
Fortunately, I live nearby and Pogy saw me blow by his Dunkin' on my way to the Dunkin' where the rest of us CT Bears were waiting. (I thought those Gold Wings had GPS built in?)
He fired up the Gold Wing and caught up to us before we departed.
As did Fonz, see his explanation in the photo version of the blog at: http://www.influentialcom.com/ . He pulled a “Chris” by showing up just as everyone else was kicking up their kickstands.
After the grumbling last week about our group riding technique, and despite your Blogger's perfect ride leadership skills, we decided to break into two groups this week. It certainly is easier to manage. But as one of our guys said, it is not nearly as cool.
I took the first group. We put the biggest grumbler from last week at the head of the second column.
It was gratifying to see that our CT Bears are reading the blog. Last week I spent a bit of space in this blog reviewing proper group riding technique with an emphasis on lane changing. I am happy to report, as evidenced by looking through my rear view mirrors, my words were not wasted.
We enjoyed a smooth and flawless ride. It is also a pretty one, if a biker can use such terms.
Connecticut's Route 34 is scenic and twisty, angling from Derby to Danbury. Then Interstate 84 is far less frenetic than I-95. It is far enough away from New York City to make it somewhat pleasurable to ride, especially when traffic is light.
You go up and down some mountains, the high points opening to vista views. Much of the road also follows rivers and these are lined with willow trees, still holding their thousands of tiny yellow leaflets when the other deciduous trees have relinquished their coverings. This makes the willows' cascading branches look like fireworks fountains scattered amongst the winter-dead landscape.
The Cornucopia in Port Jervis has a nice, big, paved parking lot. My group arrived first and I was able to get off my bike in time to catch some good riding shots of our second group arriving.
Proprietors offered a delicious buffet at a bargain 10 bucks. We were early enough to be first through the line. It appeared we were the only ones eating. Hopefully the crowd picked up later. The restaurant does a nice job of accommodating the Bears and deserves to be rewarded.
CT Bear talk was mostly of motorcycle things. Russ was telling big stories, as only Russ can do. Some of the discussion was about the upcoming Sunday's ride. It is the Sunday after Thanksgiving and last year we spent a bit of time in traffic. Unfortunately, being from Connecticut we have to get around New York City and over the Hudson River to get home after visiting Hillybilly Hall. Ugh!
For some reason, there was a lot of talk of carry permits. (This too came into play later in the day.)
Discussion revolved around which states offered reciprocal permits, apparently anyone from anywhere can carry a concealed weapon in Florida. There was some knowledgeable advice on how to transport a gun across states where you do not have a permit. All I know is if we are ever stopped and searched, I know nothing! I hear nothing! I see nothing! I say nothing!
On the other hand, if the Polar Bear Grand Tour ever adds a Newark destination, I would not want to ride with anybody but these guys.
For the ride home, I asked Captain to switch places with me; he would take lead and I would be sweep. I was unfamiliar with the Danbury Starbucks where we planned to take our coffee break. Another seemingly small decision had hour-long consequences.
Captain quickly capitulated to Bart. I'm not sure why. It really mattered not to me, except that Bart was maybe a little heavy on the horses for my taste.
I figure my old girl with 130,000-plus miles on the original mill will last the Polar Bear season if I baby her. I am no mechanic, but I do have some intrinsic sense that all the moving parts work harder at 80 mph than they do at 70.
Nonetheless, I kept up with the group.
Everybody should ride sweep at some time. You see everything. You see smooth riders, and jerky ones, and suffer most by the rubber band speeds caused by the jerky ones. You see riders who hold their lane position, and others who wander such that you wonder if they suffer vertigo.
Since my mini treatise on group riding last week seemed to bear fruit, here is another installment.
Group riding is not like riding by yourself or with a friend or two. You have a responsibility to the other riders in your group. Group riding requires a far higher attention and awareness than cruising by yourself on a Sunday afternoon.
To be fair to your fellow riders, you need to stay in your space, horizontally and vertically, as tightly as possible. You should make micro adjustments in your speed, not macro ones. Rolling off then speeding up is multiplied by every bike behind you trying to adjust to your inattentiveness. The sweep rider gets the worst of it.
Drifting left and right scares your fellow riders. They don't know if you are not paying attention or unable to ride smoothly in a straight line. Neither is a safe nor comfortable conclusion.
On the ride home we had some confusion at the Beacon Falls bridge tolls. Gates again. Wonder if some of these guys' EZ Passes ever read?
We managed to regroup and rode for a bit then Captain dropped out and onto the shoulder. As sweep, I dropped out to see what was up. Kevin dropped out too. As I rode up to the Captain, his bike was complaining loudly, “clack, clack, clack.” Captain shouted, “I think it's a bearing.”
Have you seen the tee shirts “Ride it Like You Stole it”? Well Captain rode it like he was gonna blow it. It didn't. Blow up, that is. But the motor did stop. Captain coasted along the shoulder until he found a mile marker sign.
I'm following, thinking, “Stop here. This is the sunny spot.” But the mile marker was in deep shade.
Hey, sun can make a big difference in warmth on a cold November day.
“I'm done,” Captain said as I pulled alongside. Kevin dropped to the shoulder too. Per procedure, the rest of the bikes kept going, headed to warm lattes in Danbury.
One of the foibles of Harley Owners' Group towing insurance is that they will tow your bike only to the nearest Harley dealership. That would have meant Danbury H-D. And then Captain would have to travel back and forth an hour one way from his Milford home. So instead he called his insurance company. Only they pretended not to know him.
First they said he would have to pay for the tow because they could not find his policy. “Fine, lady, I'll pay,” Captain said, “just send someone to come get me!”
Next they asked his permission to access the GPS function on his cell phone to verify his position. “Fine lady,” Captain said, “just send someone to come get me!”
Okay, they said they would call back. Then Captain's Blackberry bit the big one.
Next he called the insurance company back on my cell phone and gave them that number as an alternate call back number. I don't know if he let them access my GPS function. But I have noticed the geckos at the Aquarium looking at me in a strange way.
Captain discovered that by keeping his Blackberry stored in his armpit he was able to squeeze a few more moments out of the battery. I told you to stop in the sunshine.
In fact, getting cold, Kevin and I decided to push Captain's bike up the hill to a sunny spot on the shoulder. This was the same time the State Trooper decided to stop by.
I walked back and told him the guy up the hill was the one with trouble. So he pulled his squad car out and around to the Captain. I followed on my bike. Kevin decided he was superfluous and headed for home.
Turns out the insurance company sent the state trooper to verify Captain was in fact broken down on the shoulder of Interstate 84.
The cop took Captain's license and walked back to his car. “They're checking for wants and warrants,” Captain explained. “You're not packing?” I asked, considering the lunchtime conversation. I mean I figure being sweep bike obligates me to spend an hour or two on the shoulder with a broken down bike. But a night in jail seems over and above the call of duty.
Captain immediately responded with a firm “no” delivered with a warm and confident smile. At first I was relieved. But then I thought to myself that his response was the standard one anyone carrying a concealed gun would give. What good is it to carry a CONCEALED weapon if everyone knows you have one? I must say Captain delivered the line well.
Now that we had been properly identified and verified, the trooper cleared a tow truck who was only some 15 minutes away. (Fortunately the officer did not ask to search us.) In fact, the trooper was great and offered to let us warm up in his car. But my heart was still pumping, a trickle of sweat rolling down my back, after pushing Captain's bike up the hill. Plus now we were standing in streaming sunlight.
We told the trooper we were good and he said to just call if we needed anything.
Sure enough some 15 minutes later the tow truck appears.
We spent 45 minutes arranging for a tow truck that was waiting for a call a mere 15 minutes away. Hmmm, seems the logistics workers at the insurance company could have done a better job.
Captain negotiates a ride to his shop, Laurel and Harley in Stratford. We strap his Road King to the roll back truck. I offered to follow Captain and the truck to Stratford. I live there and figured I could get my car to give Captain a ride home from the shop.
Captain said the tow truck driver said he liked to haul ass. And he did. There went that many more RPMs on my old Springer's mill. But we all got home just fine. Next Sunday, Captain will be on his Wing. I hear they never break down.
Thank you Captain for teaching me a valuable lesson. I had always worried, been afraid even, of breaking down. My bike has so far had a legendary ability to break down only on the doorstop of a qualified Harley-Davidson dealership.
But Captain demonstrated for me that it's no big deal.
All told we were delayed a bit more than an hour. The insurance company, state police and tow company came to our aid; they were friendly, competent and capable. Captain later said the insurance company eventually recognized him and will reimburse his expenditure.
I will bring my cell phone charger with me on every ride from now on. And I will pick up one of those battery-operated emergency phone chargers as a back up solution.
Still, I am no longer afraid to “Ride it 'Till it Quits.” See you Sunday. Maybe.
By: Chris Loynd
Well the chill is in the air, but not yet the winter. I still have not installed my hippo hands. Fonz got a new set and I like the way they fit over his master cylinder. He got the actual, branded, Hippo Hands. I have a knockoff pair.
Fonz had his electrics this time, but I didn't get a chance to get his report on how he liked them. More on that later in the blog.
Pogy had navigation problems. Fortunately, he had some good bikes to lead him to and fro. Every week I send out an alert e-mail to our Connecticut and affiliated Polar Bears. In that e-mail I detail our destination and departure time. For years now I have repeated the same line, over and over, that we meet at the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, just off I-95, Exit 30, at the corner of Lordship Blvd. and Honeyspot Rd. So last week I finally got tired of repeating myself, figured everyone knew the Dunkin' by now, and merely said we would meet at the Dunkin' on Lordship Blvd. In so doing, we almost lost Pogy before we started.
My first clue to Pogy's navigation issues should have been a couple days earlier when he asked if I meant to say we were going to Port Jervis in New Jersey, not New York. I flippantly replied that we would stop at the first Port Jervis we came to on Interstate 84.
Port Jervis, New York, is right at the confluence of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. So I figured Pogy was looking at a map and was simply mistakenly identifying the state.
Turns out when we got a chance to talk at lunch in Port Jervis, NY, he was thinking of Port Jarvis, NJ. He was headed for the Jersey shore. Glad he didn't set his sights on that one! And by the way, Google has never heard of the place!
I guess he was consulting his naval charts instead of land maps.
At the Cornucopia, he made a disparaging comment such that Port Jervis must not be much of a port because it is inland. In fact it was once a very important port on the Delaware River, doubly so in 1828 when the Hudson and Delaware canal was completed. The canal created a highly profitable conduit for Pennsylvania anthracite coal from the Moosic mountains to New York City. It offered an American answer to problems caused by importation of British bituminous coal. The city was renamed from the Indian settlement inspired Mahackamack to Port Jervis in honor of John Bloomfield Jervis, an engineer on the canal project.
Port Jervis' other claims to fame include being raided and burned before the Batle of Minisink in 1779 and for a famous lynching in 1892. More recently Port Jervis was named #1 coolest small town by Budget Magazine.
Maybe the confusion is because Pogy has the heart of a waterman. He has a boat for pleasure cruising. But he also rides a working boat for leisure. When he's not fishing for helicopter buyers, his idea of a good time is the kind of work most people say is a very tough way to make a living. I forget if it was dredging for oysters or pulling lobster traps. It is hard, wet, often cold work, generally started before dawn and pursued in all weather. Long Island Sound ain't exactly “Deadliest Catch,” still it is tough stuff, double tough. But Pogy does it for fun.
Meanwhile, the one week I don't give the exact Dunkin' meeting location in my pre-ride e-mail, Pogy decides to ride up from Norwalk to meet us in Stratford and is waiting at another Dunkin' in Stratford. (Usually we pick him up en route at the Darien rest stop on I-95.) Pogy said he thought I meant this other, particular Dunkin' on Lordship Blvd. But no matter how you fold the map, he was sitting at the corner of Main St. and Access Rd. He did get the right town, thank heavens.
Fortunately, I live nearby and Pogy saw me blow by his Dunkin' on my way to the Dunkin' where the rest of us CT Bears were waiting. (I thought those Gold Wings had GPS built in?)
He fired up the Gold Wing and caught up to us before we departed.
As did Fonz, see his explanation in the photo version of the blog at: http://www.influentialcom.com/ . He pulled a “Chris” by showing up just as everyone else was kicking up their kickstands.
After the grumbling last week about our group riding technique, and despite your Blogger's perfect ride leadership skills, we decided to break into two groups this week. It certainly is easier to manage. But as one of our guys said, it is not nearly as cool.
I took the first group. We put the biggest grumbler from last week at the head of the second column.
It was gratifying to see that our CT Bears are reading the blog. Last week I spent a bit of space in this blog reviewing proper group riding technique with an emphasis on lane changing. I am happy to report, as evidenced by looking through my rear view mirrors, my words were not wasted.
We enjoyed a smooth and flawless ride. It is also a pretty one, if a biker can use such terms.
Connecticut's Route 34 is scenic and twisty, angling from Derby to Danbury. Then Interstate 84 is far less frenetic than I-95. It is far enough away from New York City to make it somewhat pleasurable to ride, especially when traffic is light.
You go up and down some mountains, the high points opening to vista views. Much of the road also follows rivers and these are lined with willow trees, still holding their thousands of tiny yellow leaflets when the other deciduous trees have relinquished their coverings. This makes the willows' cascading branches look like fireworks fountains scattered amongst the winter-dead landscape.
The Cornucopia in Port Jervis has a nice, big, paved parking lot. My group arrived first and I was able to get off my bike in time to catch some good riding shots of our second group arriving.
Proprietors offered a delicious buffet at a bargain 10 bucks. We were early enough to be first through the line. It appeared we were the only ones eating. Hopefully the crowd picked up later. The restaurant does a nice job of accommodating the Bears and deserves to be rewarded.
CT Bear talk was mostly of motorcycle things. Russ was telling big stories, as only Russ can do. Some of the discussion was about the upcoming Sunday's ride. It is the Sunday after Thanksgiving and last year we spent a bit of time in traffic. Unfortunately, being from Connecticut we have to get around New York City and over the Hudson River to get home after visiting Hillybilly Hall. Ugh!
For some reason, there was a lot of talk of carry permits. (This too came into play later in the day.)
Discussion revolved around which states offered reciprocal permits, apparently anyone from anywhere can carry a concealed weapon in Florida. There was some knowledgeable advice on how to transport a gun across states where you do not have a permit. All I know is if we are ever stopped and searched, I know nothing! I hear nothing! I see nothing! I say nothing!
On the other hand, if the Polar Bear Grand Tour ever adds a Newark destination, I would not want to ride with anybody but these guys.
For the ride home, I asked Captain to switch places with me; he would take lead and I would be sweep. I was unfamiliar with the Danbury Starbucks where we planned to take our coffee break. Another seemingly small decision had hour-long consequences.
Captain quickly capitulated to Bart. I'm not sure why. It really mattered not to me, except that Bart was maybe a little heavy on the horses for my taste.
I figure my old girl with 130,000-plus miles on the original mill will last the Polar Bear season if I baby her. I am no mechanic, but I do have some intrinsic sense that all the moving parts work harder at 80 mph than they do at 70.
Nonetheless, I kept up with the group.
Everybody should ride sweep at some time. You see everything. You see smooth riders, and jerky ones, and suffer most by the rubber band speeds caused by the jerky ones. You see riders who hold their lane position, and others who wander such that you wonder if they suffer vertigo.
Since my mini treatise on group riding last week seemed to bear fruit, here is another installment.
Group riding is not like riding by yourself or with a friend or two. You have a responsibility to the other riders in your group. Group riding requires a far higher attention and awareness than cruising by yourself on a Sunday afternoon.
To be fair to your fellow riders, you need to stay in your space, horizontally and vertically, as tightly as possible. You should make micro adjustments in your speed, not macro ones. Rolling off then speeding up is multiplied by every bike behind you trying to adjust to your inattentiveness. The sweep rider gets the worst of it.
Drifting left and right scares your fellow riders. They don't know if you are not paying attention or unable to ride smoothly in a straight line. Neither is a safe nor comfortable conclusion.
On the ride home we had some confusion at the Beacon Falls bridge tolls. Gates again. Wonder if some of these guys' EZ Passes ever read?
We managed to regroup and rode for a bit then Captain dropped out and onto the shoulder. As sweep, I dropped out to see what was up. Kevin dropped out too. As I rode up to the Captain, his bike was complaining loudly, “clack, clack, clack.” Captain shouted, “I think it's a bearing.”
Have you seen the tee shirts “Ride it Like You Stole it”? Well Captain rode it like he was gonna blow it. It didn't. Blow up, that is. But the motor did stop. Captain coasted along the shoulder until he found a mile marker sign.
I'm following, thinking, “Stop here. This is the sunny spot.” But the mile marker was in deep shade.
Hey, sun can make a big difference in warmth on a cold November day.
“I'm done,” Captain said as I pulled alongside. Kevin dropped to the shoulder too. Per procedure, the rest of the bikes kept going, headed to warm lattes in Danbury.
One of the foibles of Harley Owners' Group towing insurance is that they will tow your bike only to the nearest Harley dealership. That would have meant Danbury H-D. And then Captain would have to travel back and forth an hour one way from his Milford home. So instead he called his insurance company. Only they pretended not to know him.
First they said he would have to pay for the tow because they could not find his policy. “Fine, lady, I'll pay,” Captain said, “just send someone to come get me!”
Next they asked his permission to access the GPS function on his cell phone to verify his position. “Fine lady,” Captain said, “just send someone to come get me!”
Okay, they said they would call back. Then Captain's Blackberry bit the big one.
Next he called the insurance company back on my cell phone and gave them that number as an alternate call back number. I don't know if he let them access my GPS function. But I have noticed the geckos at the Aquarium looking at me in a strange way.
Captain discovered that by keeping his Blackberry stored in his armpit he was able to squeeze a few more moments out of the battery. I told you to stop in the sunshine.
In fact, getting cold, Kevin and I decided to push Captain's bike up the hill to a sunny spot on the shoulder. This was the same time the State Trooper decided to stop by.
I walked back and told him the guy up the hill was the one with trouble. So he pulled his squad car out and around to the Captain. I followed on my bike. Kevin decided he was superfluous and headed for home.
Turns out the insurance company sent the state trooper to verify Captain was in fact broken down on the shoulder of Interstate 84.
The cop took Captain's license and walked back to his car. “They're checking for wants and warrants,” Captain explained. “You're not packing?” I asked, considering the lunchtime conversation. I mean I figure being sweep bike obligates me to spend an hour or two on the shoulder with a broken down bike. But a night in jail seems over and above the call of duty.
Captain immediately responded with a firm “no” delivered with a warm and confident smile. At first I was relieved. But then I thought to myself that his response was the standard one anyone carrying a concealed gun would give. What good is it to carry a CONCEALED weapon if everyone knows you have one? I must say Captain delivered the line well.
Now that we had been properly identified and verified, the trooper cleared a tow truck who was only some 15 minutes away. (Fortunately the officer did not ask to search us.) In fact, the trooper was great and offered to let us warm up in his car. But my heart was still pumping, a trickle of sweat rolling down my back, after pushing Captain's bike up the hill. Plus now we were standing in streaming sunlight.
We told the trooper we were good and he said to just call if we needed anything.
Sure enough some 15 minutes later the tow truck appears.
We spent 45 minutes arranging for a tow truck that was waiting for a call a mere 15 minutes away. Hmmm, seems the logistics workers at the insurance company could have done a better job.
Captain negotiates a ride to his shop, Laurel and Harley in Stratford. We strap his Road King to the roll back truck. I offered to follow Captain and the truck to Stratford. I live there and figured I could get my car to give Captain a ride home from the shop.
Captain said the tow truck driver said he liked to haul ass. And he did. There went that many more RPMs on my old Springer's mill. But we all got home just fine. Next Sunday, Captain will be on his Wing. I hear they never break down.
Thank you Captain for teaching me a valuable lesson. I had always worried, been afraid even, of breaking down. My bike has so far had a legendary ability to break down only on the doorstop of a qualified Harley-Davidson dealership.
But Captain demonstrated for me that it's no big deal.
All told we were delayed a bit more than an hour. The insurance company, state police and tow company came to our aid; they were friendly, competent and capable. Captain later said the insurance company eventually recognized him and will reimburse his expenditure.
I will bring my cell phone charger with me on every ride from now on. And I will pick up one of those battery-operated emergency phone chargers as a back up solution.
Still, I am no longer afraid to “Ride it 'Till it Quits.” See you Sunday. Maybe.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Polar Bear Old Bridge, NJ; November 14, 2010
Old Bridge, NJ; November 14, 2010
By: Chris Loynd
Indian Summer! Are there any two descriptive words more delicious to the psyche?
Well, thinking upon it, perhaps there are a few others: winning ticket, tax refund, motel sex.
It was a gorgeous Indian Summer weekend. Every convertible owner dropped his top. I saw a beautiful Morgan tooling along with a spry older couple. Joggers reverted to shorts. Folks in their shirtsleeves were out in their yards raking leaves. Motorcycles appeared like mushrooms after a summer rain.
It was a wonderful day to ride, almost too warm for Polar Bear motorcycles. Likely I could have done with one less layer. I plugged in my electric jacket and gloves, but barely employed them. And when we got stuck in stop-and-go traffic on Route 18 north headed home, I cooked. It felt great.
I do not choose to ride my motorcycle in winter because I like being cold. I much prefer riding across Arizona mesas in streaming sun wearing my mesh jacket. I ride in winter because I cannot imagine putting my motorcycle away for three months. I would love it if polar bear season was like this every weekend. Ah, but fate landed me in Stratford, not Savannah.
Warm weather means big turnouts. We drew a crowd that eventually swelled to 12 bikes.
At the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, at a very reasonable morning hour of 9:30, owing to the short distance, Captain and your blogger had a discussion about breaking into two groups.
Riding in one large group can have some special challenges. Ten or more motorcycles, riding in staggered formation, gets to be a very long line. Leading such is like managing a train running through multi-lane interstates. Lane changing must be kept to an absolute minimum.
Still the Captain convinced me to keep together in one group with this statement, “These guys are all good riders. They know what to do.”
John J. was offered the lead, cajoled may be more like it. He whiffed. So I stepped up to the challenge. John J. instead fell in as the last bike, the “sweep” position.
Isn't it amazing how small, seemingly innocuous, decisions can have major consequences, unforeseen?
“We don't need enough lifeboats for every passenger; Titanic is unsinkable.” “We can get the Donner wagons over the mountains before the really heavy snows come.” “Read my lips, no new taxes.”
We left Stratford with a manageable eight bikes. Even with that many, it is nearly impossible for the lead bike to see the sweep, the sweep being just too far back. So we rely upon some procedures to manage the ride so it is fun and safe and successful for all.
Each rider knows his place in a safe, staggered, formation. It is important that the group remain tight to prevent the incursion of cars. Each rider holds his lane position.
There are special duties for the lead and sweep riders.
The lead has to find very big holes in traffic before signaling for a lane change. He has to allow for merging on ramps; tolls can be a real challenge.
The sweep watches for what the lead can't see. He picks up stragglers and clears for lane changes.
Changing lanes with a big group of bikes can be done safely and smoothly, if the riders are disciplined. The lead signals a lane change but does not move. All the other bikes pass the signal back to the sweep, but do NOT move. When traffic is clear the sweep moves over. Now the line of bikes controls two lanes, the current and future lanes.
Any cars stuck next to the bikes in the target lane will move up and out of the way. The sweep holds the lane, preventing any other cars from entering. When the lane is clear the lead moves over, all the other bikes following.
When done properly it is a marvel to see.
Unfortunately, some guy in the middle typically just can't wait. He sees the signal to move and jumps over to the next lane, effectively trapping a car in the space the sweep had hoped to clear. Now the sweep, and any bikes ahead of him but behind the trapped car, must make a dash around to get in front of the trapped car and back in line.
I digress, dear blog reader, but only slightly.
Sunday we had a new rider, Bob V., self-admitted Polar Cub, still Bob is an experienced rider and road captain and knows the drill.
Bob does not have EZ Pass and clearly announced that ahead of time.
So the way that works is as we approach a toll, the rider without EZ Pass zooms ahead a bit, headed for the cash lane. Meanwhile the leader slows the rest of the group approaching the EZ Pass lanes. If the leader figures the differential correctly, the rider paying cash is ready to rejoin the line just as the Pass riders exit the tolls.
Sounds good, right?
We reviewed the procedure with Bob\ and headed south.
We exited at the Darien rest stop to pick up three more riders: Jim, Fonz and Scott.
I planned to exit – instead of picking them up as we rode by like we usually do – because Fonz needed some adaptive connectors I had for an electric vest he was going to borrow from Pogy. So far Fonz has been trying to get by with a battery powered vest for warmth, as in running off of a 9-volt in his pocket, instead of wired to his motorcycle's electrical system.
No really. Batteries. It works fine when Fonz is standing still. But at speed it is probably good so long as the ambient temperature is above 70 degrees.
Only Fonz did not borrow the vest, forgot about the connectors, and expected us to just blow by on the Interstate side. He had his other riders hyped to run down the on ramp to join our line of bikes. That explains the quizzical look Fonz gave me when I pulled to a stop next to him.
“Connectors?” I shouted. “I'm good,” Fonz shouted back.
Scott is something of a new Bear. He tried a Polar Bear run a year ago, or was it two? He got as far as the Greenwich rest stop on the Merritt Parkway, declared us all crazy, and rode home.
This year Scott is on a new Harley Softail, equipped with electrics, and ready to ride. Although he still eschews rain riding.
We motored on, now a longish line of eleven.
At the Hutch Parkway we picked up Token, making us dozen bikes long.
That gets to be a lot of motorcycles to keep in line.
After picking up Token, we merged onto the Hutchinson Parkway in bits and pieces, but managed to re-form our line.
We held our own just fine until we hit the toll booths at the top of the West Side Highway in New York City.
That booth has the distinction of having gates, even in the EZ Pass lane. Captain mowed one of them down a few years back.
About half our EZ Passes would not activate the gates. Mine worked just fine.
With no shoulder to regroup, I rode down the right lane of the highway at about 10 miles per hour.
When I guesstimated I had most of our guys, I headed for the GW Bridge exit. There is a stop sign at the end of the exit, and I figured I could stop there and count heads. Which I did. And thank you so much to the New York driver who shouted encouragement and suggested I just keep going. Excuse me, but I have a right to stop at a STOP sign, even in New York City.
Back in a tight group we managed the bridge okay and headed toward the NJ Turnpike.
Now I am hoping Bob V remembered his role.
Sure enough, approaching the NJ Turnpike toll plaza, Bob pulls out next to us, zooms ahead, and runs right through the EZ Pass only speed lanes. Wha?
As I caught up to him, Bob just gave a shrug and dropped back into line.
Well, I figured he could sort it all out at Exit 9.
Meanwhile as we motored down the Jersey Turnpike in relatively light traffic, apparently Token became annoyed with my perfectly precise group leadership. I try to lead a group ride like I have a cruise control throttle, which I don't. I set a smooth and reasonable pace.
I find big gaps and make smooth lane changes and minimize the number of changes. I carefully pick the route sure to give us the least troubles. I judiciously apply my skills, always vigilant to the rear view mirrors, my only thought the comfort and safety of my fellow riders.
Apparently this was all too bucolic for Token. He got bored and came jetting up the passing lane. Abreast of my position he slowed for a moment and began gesturing. Only he used none of the pre-approved road captain hand gestures. It's not that he was giving nasty gestures. I just had absolutely no idea what he wanted to convey. As Russ said, “Even Token's hand gestures have an accent.”
After Token defected, we rode smoothly down to Exit 9 and left the Turnpike.
Past the toll plaza there really is no good spot to pull over what was now 11 bikes. And after the exit we must run a gauntlet of stop lights. This is where the lead bike really has to rely upon his sweep. With a long line it is impossible to see if every bike gets through on green. Little did I know John J. had abdicated.
John J. just sped off with the rest of us, leaving poor Bobby V. at the toll plaza. For all we know Bob could have been in handcuffs for his earlier EZ Pass Only violation. We never saw him again.
John J. should have held back and led the straggler to our destination. He would make a lousy cowboy.
John J. did leave a voice mail for Bob V. But it went unanswered and we never saw Bob again.
Fortunately, Captain heard from Bob V. later that night. After getting lost, Bob decided to turn around and head back home, alone, missing lunch.
Despite his shabby treatment, Bob said he may try to ride with us again. I'll bet he puts the destination into his GPS this time!
And despite his malfeasance, John J. will be welcome to join us again, because, after all, who among us has never made a mistake?
Likely John J. and I will both choose the middle of the pack on this Sunday's ride. We'll let someone else take the heat and see what happens. “How is it you can see the mote in my eye and not the log in your own?”
By: Chris Loynd
Indian Summer! Are there any two descriptive words more delicious to the psyche?
Well, thinking upon it, perhaps there are a few others: winning ticket, tax refund, motel sex.
It was a gorgeous Indian Summer weekend. Every convertible owner dropped his top. I saw a beautiful Morgan tooling along with a spry older couple. Joggers reverted to shorts. Folks in their shirtsleeves were out in their yards raking leaves. Motorcycles appeared like mushrooms after a summer rain.
It was a wonderful day to ride, almost too warm for Polar Bear motorcycles. Likely I could have done with one less layer. I plugged in my electric jacket and gloves, but barely employed them. And when we got stuck in stop-and-go traffic on Route 18 north headed home, I cooked. It felt great.
I do not choose to ride my motorcycle in winter because I like being cold. I much prefer riding across Arizona mesas in streaming sun wearing my mesh jacket. I ride in winter because I cannot imagine putting my motorcycle away for three months. I would love it if polar bear season was like this every weekend. Ah, but fate landed me in Stratford, not Savannah.
Warm weather means big turnouts. We drew a crowd that eventually swelled to 12 bikes.
At the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, at a very reasonable morning hour of 9:30, owing to the short distance, Captain and your blogger had a discussion about breaking into two groups.
Riding in one large group can have some special challenges. Ten or more motorcycles, riding in staggered formation, gets to be a very long line. Leading such is like managing a train running through multi-lane interstates. Lane changing must be kept to an absolute minimum.
Still the Captain convinced me to keep together in one group with this statement, “These guys are all good riders. They know what to do.”
John J. was offered the lead, cajoled may be more like it. He whiffed. So I stepped up to the challenge. John J. instead fell in as the last bike, the “sweep” position.
Isn't it amazing how small, seemingly innocuous, decisions can have major consequences, unforeseen?
“We don't need enough lifeboats for every passenger; Titanic is unsinkable.” “We can get the Donner wagons over the mountains before the really heavy snows come.” “Read my lips, no new taxes.”
We left Stratford with a manageable eight bikes. Even with that many, it is nearly impossible for the lead bike to see the sweep, the sweep being just too far back. So we rely upon some procedures to manage the ride so it is fun and safe and successful for all.
Each rider knows his place in a safe, staggered, formation. It is important that the group remain tight to prevent the incursion of cars. Each rider holds his lane position.
There are special duties for the lead and sweep riders.
The lead has to find very big holes in traffic before signaling for a lane change. He has to allow for merging on ramps; tolls can be a real challenge.
The sweep watches for what the lead can't see. He picks up stragglers and clears for lane changes.
Changing lanes with a big group of bikes can be done safely and smoothly, if the riders are disciplined. The lead signals a lane change but does not move. All the other bikes pass the signal back to the sweep, but do NOT move. When traffic is clear the sweep moves over. Now the line of bikes controls two lanes, the current and future lanes.
Any cars stuck next to the bikes in the target lane will move up and out of the way. The sweep holds the lane, preventing any other cars from entering. When the lane is clear the lead moves over, all the other bikes following.
When done properly it is a marvel to see.
Unfortunately, some guy in the middle typically just can't wait. He sees the signal to move and jumps over to the next lane, effectively trapping a car in the space the sweep had hoped to clear. Now the sweep, and any bikes ahead of him but behind the trapped car, must make a dash around to get in front of the trapped car and back in line.
I digress, dear blog reader, but only slightly.
Sunday we had a new rider, Bob V., self-admitted Polar Cub, still Bob is an experienced rider and road captain and knows the drill.
Bob does not have EZ Pass and clearly announced that ahead of time.
So the way that works is as we approach a toll, the rider without EZ Pass zooms ahead a bit, headed for the cash lane. Meanwhile the leader slows the rest of the group approaching the EZ Pass lanes. If the leader figures the differential correctly, the rider paying cash is ready to rejoin the line just as the Pass riders exit the tolls.
Sounds good, right?
We reviewed the procedure with Bob\ and headed south.
We exited at the Darien rest stop to pick up three more riders: Jim, Fonz and Scott.
I planned to exit – instead of picking them up as we rode by like we usually do – because Fonz needed some adaptive connectors I had for an electric vest he was going to borrow from Pogy. So far Fonz has been trying to get by with a battery powered vest for warmth, as in running off of a 9-volt in his pocket, instead of wired to his motorcycle's electrical system.
No really. Batteries. It works fine when Fonz is standing still. But at speed it is probably good so long as the ambient temperature is above 70 degrees.
Only Fonz did not borrow the vest, forgot about the connectors, and expected us to just blow by on the Interstate side. He had his other riders hyped to run down the on ramp to join our line of bikes. That explains the quizzical look Fonz gave me when I pulled to a stop next to him.
“Connectors?” I shouted. “I'm good,” Fonz shouted back.
Scott is something of a new Bear. He tried a Polar Bear run a year ago, or was it two? He got as far as the Greenwich rest stop on the Merritt Parkway, declared us all crazy, and rode home.
This year Scott is on a new Harley Softail, equipped with electrics, and ready to ride. Although he still eschews rain riding.
We motored on, now a longish line of eleven.
At the Hutch Parkway we picked up Token, making us dozen bikes long.
That gets to be a lot of motorcycles to keep in line.
After picking up Token, we merged onto the Hutchinson Parkway in bits and pieces, but managed to re-form our line.
We held our own just fine until we hit the toll booths at the top of the West Side Highway in New York City.
That booth has the distinction of having gates, even in the EZ Pass lane. Captain mowed one of them down a few years back.
About half our EZ Passes would not activate the gates. Mine worked just fine.
With no shoulder to regroup, I rode down the right lane of the highway at about 10 miles per hour.
When I guesstimated I had most of our guys, I headed for the GW Bridge exit. There is a stop sign at the end of the exit, and I figured I could stop there and count heads. Which I did. And thank you so much to the New York driver who shouted encouragement and suggested I just keep going. Excuse me, but I have a right to stop at a STOP sign, even in New York City.
Back in a tight group we managed the bridge okay and headed toward the NJ Turnpike.
Now I am hoping Bob V remembered his role.
Sure enough, approaching the NJ Turnpike toll plaza, Bob pulls out next to us, zooms ahead, and runs right through the EZ Pass only speed lanes. Wha?
As I caught up to him, Bob just gave a shrug and dropped back into line.
Well, I figured he could sort it all out at Exit 9.
Meanwhile as we motored down the Jersey Turnpike in relatively light traffic, apparently Token became annoyed with my perfectly precise group leadership. I try to lead a group ride like I have a cruise control throttle, which I don't. I set a smooth and reasonable pace.
I find big gaps and make smooth lane changes and minimize the number of changes. I carefully pick the route sure to give us the least troubles. I judiciously apply my skills, always vigilant to the rear view mirrors, my only thought the comfort and safety of my fellow riders.
Apparently this was all too bucolic for Token. He got bored and came jetting up the passing lane. Abreast of my position he slowed for a moment and began gesturing. Only he used none of the pre-approved road captain hand gestures. It's not that he was giving nasty gestures. I just had absolutely no idea what he wanted to convey. As Russ said, “Even Token's hand gestures have an accent.”
After Token defected, we rode smoothly down to Exit 9 and left the Turnpike.
Past the toll plaza there really is no good spot to pull over what was now 11 bikes. And after the exit we must run a gauntlet of stop lights. This is where the lead bike really has to rely upon his sweep. With a long line it is impossible to see if every bike gets through on green. Little did I know John J. had abdicated.
John J. just sped off with the rest of us, leaving poor Bobby V. at the toll plaza. For all we know Bob could have been in handcuffs for his earlier EZ Pass Only violation. We never saw him again.
John J. should have held back and led the straggler to our destination. He would make a lousy cowboy.
John J. did leave a voice mail for Bob V. But it went unanswered and we never saw Bob again.
Fortunately, Captain heard from Bob V. later that night. After getting lost, Bob decided to turn around and head back home, alone, missing lunch.
Despite his shabby treatment, Bob said he may try to ride with us again. I'll bet he puts the destination into his GPS this time!
And despite his malfeasance, John J. will be welcome to join us again, because, after all, who among us has never made a mistake?
Likely John J. and I will both choose the middle of the pack on this Sunday's ride. We'll let someone else take the heat and see what happens. “How is it you can see the mote in my eye and not the log in your own?”
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Polar Bear Lewes, Del., November 7, 2010
Lewes, Del., November 7, 2010
Part of the fun of Polar Bear riding is riding with friends. It is also one of the challenges. Our different riding habits and personalities make good blog fodder.
Russ, Carl and I rode down together on Saturday, a day early for our Sunday Polar Bear run to the club's self-acclaimed “South Pole” in Lewes, Del. (If you're a local, that's pronounced “lose,” not “Lewis.”)
Russ' brother lives on a farm in southern New Jersey. My folks live in Wilmington, Del. We both exited the turnpike at number two.
I was headed to my folks' home to do some chores for Mom, visit with Dad and play with Heidi their Schnauzerdoodle. Mom rewards me with scrapple breakfast. Russ and Carl I think skipped the chores, but got scrapple breakfast all the same. Carl even texted photo proof to me Sunday morning.
Scrapple is a Pennsylvania Dutch thing. My folks are from Lancaster County. I was actually born in Lancaster and lived in Intercourse for five years before we moved just over the line to Delaware. That State paid school teachers better and therefore my father's prospects (and not inconsequentially my own) improved.
Scrapple is traditionally made with all the parts of a pig that are not good enough to go into sausage. You mix what's left of the hog with oatmeal and spices and press it into blocks. Later you slice the blocks and fry it, hot, on both sides. It may be what some folks would call an “acquired” taste. But I grew up on the stuff.
My Grandfather Loynd was once a butcher and explained it this way, “You butcher the hog and cut out all the fine cuts, pork chops, loin, and such, plus the bacon. Then all the little trimmings and bits that are any good go into sausage. Next you collect up everything else and that makes scrapple. Then you sweep the floor and that makes puddin'.”
Russ and his brothers go in together to raise some pigs on the Jersey farm. They like scrapple so much they grind up the whole hog for it. That makes some mighty fine scrapple; I have had the pleasure of sampling such.
I once went through scrapple withdrawal when I lived in Milwaukee. I got so desperate I made some myself. I used pork tenderloin and it made some of the best scrapple I ever tasted. But it was a lot of work with the food processor.
Standing at the Stratford Dunkin' Saturday, visions of scrapple dancing in our heads, Russ and I began the parlay as to how we should organize our group ride. Even for just three riders it can be delicate negotiations. For my opening play I graciously conceded the lead to Russ.
But Russ countered, saying he wanted to sweep because the metal rods in his hand sometimes caused unexpected throttle surging and he would go shooting up in speed. “Uh, isn't that all the more reason to put you up front?” I asked. “I mean if you're going to suddenly go shooting up through the bikes.”
But what Russ meant is that it is easier for him if someone else sets the pace so he can follow.
I shouted over to Carl, “You okay with the rocking chair?” Carl responded, “Sofa!” Okay. We're off.
We had a nice ride down in reasonably light traffic. We made one comfort stop just after the turnpike un-split itself. Looking at the line at the pumps we decided to stretch our tanks to Exit 2.
At our comfort stop I suggested we could meet up again Sunday morning to resume our ride to Lewes. I had gone on Google Earth and found a Dunkin' Donuts on Route 13 just below I-295. Russ and Carl would be approaching from the east, I from the west. It seemed an easy place to reconvene.
The address was 1001 North DuPont Highway.
Perhaps it is a foible of my profession. I am often guilty of providing too much information. Attempting to ensure absolutely clear communication, I confuse my listeners by explaining something in greater and greater illustrative detail.
In that spirit, I cautioned the guys that our meeting place was on the southbound side of North DuPont Highway. Carl punched 1001 SOUTH DuPont Highway into his GPS Saturday night. And I never saw them again until Lewes.
Now Carl and Russ both passed lie detector tests, administered by the Delaware State Police, swearing that your faithful blogger told them the address was SOUTH DuPont highway. I don't think so even today. I even gave Carl a written note, which he acknowledged receiving. Still, I do have to admit I am reaching an age where I hear one thought in my head and somehow enunciate another, entirely different thought, through my mouth.
I described at length, in pictorial detail, with elaborate hand gestures, how they would come over the Delaware Memorial Bridge, exit onto 295, then turn south onto 13, and finally see the Dunkin' on their right. I described the pink and orange logo they would see, on the sign, at the facility, on Route 13, southbound.
The final result says something about the faith my fellow riders have in me. Russ and Carl blindly let their GPS take them down a dead end dirt road in the middle of the worst part of New Castle, Del., to a small church, on South DuPont Highway before they called me on the phone to express their confusion. Fortunately Russ says he was “saved” right there in the dirt parking lot as Carl and I sorted out the mishap via cell phone.
I took Carl's call standing on the berm in front of the Dunkin' overlooking Route 13, watching the rest of our guys blow by, all the way down from Connecticut, they having departed early Sunday morning.
Carl and I tried to coordinate a second meeting place. I proposed just after the toll booths after they cross the C&D canal. I even babbled on about what the bridge looked like, what a canal was, where we could meet after the tolls.
I stood on the shoulder of the road past the bridge tolls for 20 minutes. Neither Russ nor Carl appeared. Neither phone call nor text was received by me. I finally sent Carl a text to tell him I would see them in Lewes; his voice mail was accepting no inbound messages.
Turns out, Carl and Russ also saw our guys go by and decided to chase after them, and without so much as a “by your leave” to me.
When I finally arrived at Lewes, after waiting for Russ and Carl to never show, twice, I got all the excoriation about being late. Grumpy even took the group photo without me. Talk about insult on injury!
So this is the second time in as many rides my “pals” have left me behind and out. Maybe they're trying to tell me something?
I mean our guys were picking up random riders at rest stops on the way down. And they couldn't grab me on the way? They picked up another foreigner, Jim, from New York, when they pulled in for gas on the turnpike.
New Jersey Matt may have started something here with non-Connecticut, Connecticut Polar Bears. Who knows? Maybe someday in the future there will be a Connecticut location on the Polar Bear calendar.
Riding alone in my thoughts, I drifted back a few years in my mind. It felt good to me to be back on the Delmarva peninsula. (Delmarva stands for Delaware, Maryland and Virginia.)
My first job after graduating from college was here. I was running all over downstate Delaware, the Eastern Shore of Maryland and the Virginia peninsula writing stories for “The Delmarva Farmer” weekly newspaper.
Our copy deadline was Sunday at noon. I used to party Friday and Saturday nights with some girls I knew in high school who rented a house over in Sea Isle City, on the Jersey Shore. (“Jacks” had a soft ice cream machine at every corner of their Tiki bar that dispensed pina coladas.) Then early Sunday morning I would haul my butt onto the first Cape May to Lewes ferry, drive across Delaware, then across the Eastern Shore of Maryland to arrive bleary eyed, copy in hand, at the newspaper offices.
I would stay over in Easton Sunday night because our print deadline was noon Monday. We put the paper together in a mad frenzy Monday morning. These were pre-computer days with waxed galleys and literal cut and paste.
There was this typesetter girl on the night shift. She was kinda quiet and cute. Pretty, not in the hot babe way that young men seek, but attractive and trim. I noticed her. However the whole typesetting department was young girls. This was this one proofreader too. She was a hot babe type. Couldn't spell and was a critic of sentence structure. But who could get mad at her randomly rewriting my copy with a body like that? So I was too distracted to much notice Cynthia Trever.
It took a bit more effort on both our parts for me to discover that behind that quiet front of hers was a sharp wit and smart mind and a hidden feisty nature. She was nervous in some things, sure in others. She was independent. She asked for nothing and offered everything.
I danced with her at the company Christmas party, right about this time of year in 1979. But I didn't remember her. I danced with a lot of girls from work that night. The date I brought to the party didn't dance.
A week later at our more informal, back-shop, holiday party I was sitting on a concrete step to the press room, eating some oysters, chatting with my boss. That typesetter girl came up and said, “So Chris, when are you taking me dancing again?” Not missing a beat I said, "How about next Saturday?" We made the date.
After she left, my boss asked, “This happen to you often?” “Oh, all the time,” I replied.
Cynthia Trever and I ended up getting married after we got to know each other a lot better, sometimes over scrapple sandwiches at the H&G restaurant in Easton, on Route 50, northbound side.
Part of the fun of Polar Bear riding is riding with friends. It is also one of the challenges. Our different riding habits and personalities make good blog fodder.
Russ, Carl and I rode down together on Saturday, a day early for our Sunday Polar Bear run to the club's self-acclaimed “South Pole” in Lewes, Del. (If you're a local, that's pronounced “lose,” not “Lewis.”)
Russ' brother lives on a farm in southern New Jersey. My folks live in Wilmington, Del. We both exited the turnpike at number two.
I was headed to my folks' home to do some chores for Mom, visit with Dad and play with Heidi their Schnauzerdoodle. Mom rewards me with scrapple breakfast. Russ and Carl I think skipped the chores, but got scrapple breakfast all the same. Carl even texted photo proof to me Sunday morning.
Scrapple is a Pennsylvania Dutch thing. My folks are from Lancaster County. I was actually born in Lancaster and lived in Intercourse for five years before we moved just over the line to Delaware. That State paid school teachers better and therefore my father's prospects (and not inconsequentially my own) improved.
Scrapple is traditionally made with all the parts of a pig that are not good enough to go into sausage. You mix what's left of the hog with oatmeal and spices and press it into blocks. Later you slice the blocks and fry it, hot, on both sides. It may be what some folks would call an “acquired” taste. But I grew up on the stuff.
My Grandfather Loynd was once a butcher and explained it this way, “You butcher the hog and cut out all the fine cuts, pork chops, loin, and such, plus the bacon. Then all the little trimmings and bits that are any good go into sausage. Next you collect up everything else and that makes scrapple. Then you sweep the floor and that makes puddin'.”
Russ and his brothers go in together to raise some pigs on the Jersey farm. They like scrapple so much they grind up the whole hog for it. That makes some mighty fine scrapple; I have had the pleasure of sampling such.
I once went through scrapple withdrawal when I lived in Milwaukee. I got so desperate I made some myself. I used pork tenderloin and it made some of the best scrapple I ever tasted. But it was a lot of work with the food processor.
Standing at the Stratford Dunkin' Saturday, visions of scrapple dancing in our heads, Russ and I began the parlay as to how we should organize our group ride. Even for just three riders it can be delicate negotiations. For my opening play I graciously conceded the lead to Russ.
But Russ countered, saying he wanted to sweep because the metal rods in his hand sometimes caused unexpected throttle surging and he would go shooting up in speed. “Uh, isn't that all the more reason to put you up front?” I asked. “I mean if you're going to suddenly go shooting up through the bikes.”
But what Russ meant is that it is easier for him if someone else sets the pace so he can follow.
I shouted over to Carl, “You okay with the rocking chair?” Carl responded, “Sofa!” Okay. We're off.
We had a nice ride down in reasonably light traffic. We made one comfort stop just after the turnpike un-split itself. Looking at the line at the pumps we decided to stretch our tanks to Exit 2.
At our comfort stop I suggested we could meet up again Sunday morning to resume our ride to Lewes. I had gone on Google Earth and found a Dunkin' Donuts on Route 13 just below I-295. Russ and Carl would be approaching from the east, I from the west. It seemed an easy place to reconvene.
The address was 1001 North DuPont Highway.
Perhaps it is a foible of my profession. I am often guilty of providing too much information. Attempting to ensure absolutely clear communication, I confuse my listeners by explaining something in greater and greater illustrative detail.
In that spirit, I cautioned the guys that our meeting place was on the southbound side of North DuPont Highway. Carl punched 1001 SOUTH DuPont Highway into his GPS Saturday night. And I never saw them again until Lewes.
Now Carl and Russ both passed lie detector tests, administered by the Delaware State Police, swearing that your faithful blogger told them the address was SOUTH DuPont highway. I don't think so even today. I even gave Carl a written note, which he acknowledged receiving. Still, I do have to admit I am reaching an age where I hear one thought in my head and somehow enunciate another, entirely different thought, through my mouth.
I described at length, in pictorial detail, with elaborate hand gestures, how they would come over the Delaware Memorial Bridge, exit onto 295, then turn south onto 13, and finally see the Dunkin' on their right. I described the pink and orange logo they would see, on the sign, at the facility, on Route 13, southbound.
The final result says something about the faith my fellow riders have in me. Russ and Carl blindly let their GPS take them down a dead end dirt road in the middle of the worst part of New Castle, Del., to a small church, on South DuPont Highway before they called me on the phone to express their confusion. Fortunately Russ says he was “saved” right there in the dirt parking lot as Carl and I sorted out the mishap via cell phone.
I took Carl's call standing on the berm in front of the Dunkin' overlooking Route 13, watching the rest of our guys blow by, all the way down from Connecticut, they having departed early Sunday morning.
Carl and I tried to coordinate a second meeting place. I proposed just after the toll booths after they cross the C&D canal. I even babbled on about what the bridge looked like, what a canal was, where we could meet after the tolls.
I stood on the shoulder of the road past the bridge tolls for 20 minutes. Neither Russ nor Carl appeared. Neither phone call nor text was received by me. I finally sent Carl a text to tell him I would see them in Lewes; his voice mail was accepting no inbound messages.
Turns out, Carl and Russ also saw our guys go by and decided to chase after them, and without so much as a “by your leave” to me.
When I finally arrived at Lewes, after waiting for Russ and Carl to never show, twice, I got all the excoriation about being late. Grumpy even took the group photo without me. Talk about insult on injury!
So this is the second time in as many rides my “pals” have left me behind and out. Maybe they're trying to tell me something?
I mean our guys were picking up random riders at rest stops on the way down. And they couldn't grab me on the way? They picked up another foreigner, Jim, from New York, when they pulled in for gas on the turnpike.
New Jersey Matt may have started something here with non-Connecticut, Connecticut Polar Bears. Who knows? Maybe someday in the future there will be a Connecticut location on the Polar Bear calendar.
Riding alone in my thoughts, I drifted back a few years in my mind. It felt good to me to be back on the Delmarva peninsula. (Delmarva stands for Delaware, Maryland and Virginia.)
My first job after graduating from college was here. I was running all over downstate Delaware, the Eastern Shore of Maryland and the Virginia peninsula writing stories for “The Delmarva Farmer” weekly newspaper.
Our copy deadline was Sunday at noon. I used to party Friday and Saturday nights with some girls I knew in high school who rented a house over in Sea Isle City, on the Jersey Shore. (“Jacks” had a soft ice cream machine at every corner of their Tiki bar that dispensed pina coladas.) Then early Sunday morning I would haul my butt onto the first Cape May to Lewes ferry, drive across Delaware, then across the Eastern Shore of Maryland to arrive bleary eyed, copy in hand, at the newspaper offices.
I would stay over in Easton Sunday night because our print deadline was noon Monday. We put the paper together in a mad frenzy Monday morning. These were pre-computer days with waxed galleys and literal cut and paste.
There was this typesetter girl on the night shift. She was kinda quiet and cute. Pretty, not in the hot babe way that young men seek, but attractive and trim. I noticed her. However the whole typesetting department was young girls. This was this one proofreader too. She was a hot babe type. Couldn't spell and was a critic of sentence structure. But who could get mad at her randomly rewriting my copy with a body like that? So I was too distracted to much notice Cynthia Trever.
It took a bit more effort on both our parts for me to discover that behind that quiet front of hers was a sharp wit and smart mind and a hidden feisty nature. She was nervous in some things, sure in others. She was independent. She asked for nothing and offered everything.
I danced with her at the company Christmas party, right about this time of year in 1979. But I didn't remember her. I danced with a lot of girls from work that night. The date I brought to the party didn't dance.
A week later at our more informal, back-shop, holiday party I was sitting on a concrete step to the press room, eating some oysters, chatting with my boss. That typesetter girl came up and said, “So Chris, when are you taking me dancing again?” Not missing a beat I said, "How about next Saturday?" We made the date.
After she left, my boss asked, “This happen to you often?” “Oh, all the time,” I replied.
Cynthia Trever and I ended up getting married after we got to know each other a lot better, sometimes over scrapple sandwiches at the H&G restaurant in Easton, on Route 50, northbound side.
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