bike in mountains

Beware the Craters of Beautiful NWI

riding to write
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And they named it “Sturdy Road” Ha!

We’d just survived a particularly brutal winter in Beautiful Northwest Indiana. I’d had my fill of potholes and choppy corners and was looking forward to smooth pavement and sweeping curves. These I would find in abundance in south central Missouri. The night before I was to head out a giant crater less than a mile from my house transformed my Suzuki V-Strom 1000 into a fair approximation of bucking bronco. I didn’t drop the bike, but the impact bent both rims. I stared in disbelief at the damage, ironic on a machine that had once carried me across the Alaskan Arctic with nary a scratch. With no time to fix the damage the Strom’s Givi luggage was swapped to its brother bike, another Alaska veteran, my Bandit 1250.

The interstates to Fort Leonard Wood Missouri were efficient to the nth degree. There isn’t much else to say except that the crosswinds and driving rain on I-57 in Illinois beat me to death. I was almost happy to face the gale head-on once I swung west on I-44 at St. Louis.

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Proud Dad with Captain Rayanna Joy Tressler

My daughter’s captain course graduation had brought me to the fort, after which I was bound for the Kansas City area to visit a new grandchild. Desperately wanting to stay off the super-slab I was drawn to Missouri 7. Seeing the squiggly line on my well-worn map my daughter offered: “That road is nauseating but you’ll love it on the bike.” That was all I needed to hear.

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Missouri 7 just north of I-44

I struck north into the heart of the Ozarks on a clear spring day. Trees throughout the rolling countryside were greening up after their own winter hibernation, though not as deep as the one I’d suffered through. They stretched as far as the eye could see.

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Missouri 7, somewhere in the Ozarks

The curves I’d been dreaming of appeared almost immediately. At times they lazily meandered through pastures and woodlands. Other times, they took on a more technical quality with rapid fire switchbacks and decreasing radius that challenged my bike handling skills. The kid was right. The road was a blast!

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Have fun on the curves, but beware of Bessie. This is cattle country!

Towns along the way were generally small. Montreal Missouri for example, features but two businesses, a gas station/convenience store, along with a proud American tradition, the country gun shop.

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Alamo Arms, Montreal Missouri

Alamo Arms was undergoing a face lift when I visited, courtesy of prosperity driven by the high demand for firearms of all types. In an economic recovery that hasn’t quite taken hold for many industries, guns and ammo sales are booming. As the proprietor showed me some of her wares, I was drawn to a rack of used rifles. There in the middle was a Chinese Mosin-Nagant M-53, the best example of the type I’d ever seen. The price was reasonable and I wanted it. Strapping it to the bike though, would have been another matter. Sort of made me wish I’d taken the Ural with its sidecar instead of the Bandit.

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Acrylic dipped hog’s head. Who knows what you’ll find at the country guns shop?

By late morning I was getting hungry. The Smokeshack Barb-Que in Warsaw looked inviting. Reeled in by the $5.75 beef brisket special, I also couldn’t resist the freshly baked blackberry cobbler. The food and service were great. As I was paying my bill the owner recommended I check out the Harry S. Truman Dam and Reservoir, just a short ride up the road.

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Good food, good prices.
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A bit of humor.

The sprawling conservation project is managed by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, who also maintains an impressive visitor’s center. Situated high on Kaysinger Bluff, exhibits provide a fascinating look at fossils, fauna and history of the area. Across the parking lot in the woods is another attraction. There on ten acres leased from the Corps, a replica 1850s pioneer village is waiting to be explored. Demonstrations showcase just how tough everyday life was on the frontier. A festival held each October draws thousands of visitors and includes Civil War and mountain man camps. A tremendous amount of volunteer labor is required to keep the old-time traditions alive. Hopefully some of the legions of school children that are bussed in every year will catch the vision and help preserve it. Maybe one day I’ll bring my own grand kids.

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Harry S. Truman Visitor’s Center
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Elmore Cabin Area
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Lots to see and do.
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The Bandit and the Bluff

With the afternoon spent it was time to move on. I was in luck and the road over the dam was open. Views on the short ride were spectacular. A few more curves lay ahead as I passed through colorfully named towns like Tightwad and Coal. But all too soon the party was over and the squiggly lines were pulled taut. Yet another interstate awaited me. Still, I’d spent the day riding on pothole-free roads, had some great food and seen some interesting sights. Plus the weather was perfect. What more could a rider could ask for?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Beware the craters of beautiful NWI!

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KABOOM!
What was . . . man . . . what did I just hit? 
The V-Strom bucked and jumped like a wild horse, but somehow I kept it upright. I wheeled into a convenient parking lot and ran my hand around the front rim. No obvious dents and the tire was holding air. Maybe I got lucky. I walked a short distance up the road, expecting to find a rusted out muffler, or maybe a piece of lumber. It was neither. What I hit was a piece of the road itself. The brutal Northwest Indiana winter had claimed another victim. 
The crater on the ironically named Sturdy Road was a few feet long, and growing. The chunk was roughly eighteen by twelve by three inches and weighed about fifty pounds. I disgustedly heaved it onto the shoulder, making a mental note to take a picture in the morning. The morning, ah yes, I was scheduled to head out on a road trip to Missouri, Arkansas, Oklahoma, and ultimately, Kansas. 
Riding a compromised machine on an extended tour is never a good plan. Luckily, the Strom’s brother bike, a Bandit 1250 sat ready to serve. The luggage was quickly swapped and duffel transferred. Actually, the GIVI hard bags and trunk were purchased with the big Bandit and adapted to the Strom. Both bikes are 2007 vintage and carried me to Alaska, the Strom having an edge in comfort and fuel range. It has been my primary long-distance mount since I picked it up as a non-current model on New Year’s Eve 2011.
Other than a brutal west wind on I-57, the ride to Fort Leonard Wood Missouri was uneventful. Increasingly though, I noticed sloppy shifting as I pulled away from gas stops. A quick check of the chain revealed it to be drooping like soggy spaghetti.  Not wanting to push my luck, I decided to make the run to Kansas City where I was to see my newest granddaughter. A visit to Amazon.com had a new DID X-ring chain and sprockets waiting when I arrived. The ride through southern Missouri on pot-hole free Route 7 was a joy. I highly recommend the road and will be doing a story on it that I hope will run as a favorite ride in Rider Magazine. 

definitely shot!
I swapped the drive train in my daughter’s driveway with the tools I carried, along with a torque wrench and 32mm socket courtesy of O’ Riley Auto Parts. They offer select tools for loan with an appropriate deposit. A sweet deal! Arkansas was still on the table at this point. That is until I pulled a nail out of the rear Michelin a couple of days later. Argh! This was quickly repaired with my Aerostich plug kit and Slime pump, both of which I never leave home without. A Michelin Pilot Road Four was eventually located at Shawnee Cycle Plaza, a great shop. The tire was exactly what I wanted. This is a huge deal. In the past, I’ve made due with whatever was in stock, typically track-spec rubber that wore out before hitting the state line.  
 Time was running short so I pointed the Bandit’s front wheel northeast. The potholes were still there when I crossed the back into beautiful Northwest Indiana. Actually, Illinois has a good crop of its own. Oh, and as for the Strom. Both rims are bent. My comprehensive coverage will take some of the sting out of the bill, but I could definitely get used to riding where the road isn’t ready to swallow the bike at any instant.

Missouri Route 7

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link to Rider Magazine story on Wind Blown Amy

riding to write

 Here is the link to my story in Rider Magazine that ran in the April 2014 issue. It features my sidecar riding artist friend, Amy Jean Nichols, the toughest rider I know. Check it out and let me know what you think. Also, drop a line to Rider if you’re so inclined.

http://www.ridermagazine.com/touring-and-rallies/windblownamy-artist-rider-survivor.htm/

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save the trees and a little piece of dirt

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Lest everyone think I’ve been a slug over winter break, I thought I’d better offer a reason for not posting. Since fall classes ended, I’ve been heavy into my spring directed writing class project. It will certainly carry on through the summer and possibly the fall as well. I’ll have to put together a post on what I’m up to soon. But for now, here are a couple of my previous blogs that I combined into my third writing project during the fall semester. What seemed like an easy task turned out to be a lot more complicated than I ever imagined. Both pieces are on writers I admire and have influenced me. I hope you enjoy them.


                                                                     
                                         Save the Trees

I wish I was a faster typist. No, scratch that. What I’d really like to do is actually type. I perform a poor imitation. During the 1970s while serving a four year sentence at Valparaiso High School, my guidance counselor tried repeatedly to get me into typing class. That was what they called it then. They used real typewriters. I always begged off, as it didn’t seem like a “manly” activity. My logic, quite flawed as it turns out, was if I need a typist, I’ll hire one. Well I’m paying for it now.
The word processor is a wonderful innovation. Without it, I’d be responsible for the decimation an entire forests. I’d also need barrels of white-out. But even this crutch has its limitations. Until recently, my brain and fingers pounded the keyboard in sort of a mutual harmony. The thoughts didn’t overwhelm the digits. But now the ideas are coming in frenzy and my clumsy fingers struggle to keep up. And I get frustrated. An aspiring writer should know how to type. A few years ago I took a keyboarding class at the career center at work. The program was called Mavis-Beacon. The contortions required to mimic the virtual keyboard prompts were unnatural and uncomfortable. I’d have had much less trouble when my fingers and mind were more pliable. Like when I was in high school.
Mechanical issues aside, I prefer a creative nonfiction style based on actual events from a first-person perspective. I say based, because to me truth, rather than the straight relating of fact is more important. Jack Kerouac, whose work has been an inspiration, popularized a technique that involved the fictionalization of real events. This is something I’ve also played with. Kerouac incidentally, was a lightning fast typist. His best seller, On the Road: the Original Scroll was fired off during a three-week marathon session. His canvas was a taped together 120-foot-long “scroll” of typing paper.
 Kerouac also turned out some fine nonfiction. His tale Lonesome Traveler: Alone on a Mountaintop, relates of working as a firewatcher in the Cascade Mountains. A favorite of mine, the piece chronicles his manning of an isolated mountaintop outpost. Having once visited a fire watch installation in the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas, I have no problem relating to how the experience must have felt. The firewatcher’s main responsibility, I was told by the tour guide, involved scanning for forest fires from the 100 foot-tall steel tower. The coordinates would then be radioed to dispatch for appropriate action. Fires often emanate from lightning strikes. The prospect of becoming a human lightning rod isn’t too appealing for most people.  Writing being the solitary endeavor it is along with the lure of ample time to read, must have made the risk one worth taking for Kerouac. Nowadays, satellites do the watching; not nearly as romantic, but much safer.

            As for gathering material, I favor living it, then telling it. Kerouac spent years on the road, something I’d love to do. But for the time being, I’ll be lucky to scrape together a couple months away. Some observers credit chemical over-indulgences that snuffed Jack’s life at age forty-nine as the basis of his creativity. I often ponder the question, but nevertheless don’t plan to take that particular path. After all, successful as he was, he’s still dead. And I definitely won’t attempt to mimic his use of the scroll. I’ll just stick with the word processor and save some trees.
                                                           
A Little Piece of Dirt
Recently, I reread Hunter Thompson’s breakout best-seller, Hell’s Angels. The story centers on his experiences as he rode and partied with the notorious Southern California 1% Club. In the end, he barely escaped with his life after suffering a severe beating know in Angel vernacular as a “stomping.” The reason is lost to time, but may have had to do with the sharing of potential book profits.  The Angels felt, and not without justification, that there would be no story without them. Beware when your subject matter includes outlaw biker gangs; they play by their own rules. Normal people would have just hired a lawyer. Subject compensation however, is something a writer needs to think about. It will doubtless come up in a project I’m currently contemplating. Lucky for me though, a stomping shouldn’t be part of the payback.
Thompson was gifted with a brilliant mind and vivid imagination. An incredibly caustic wit was part of the package. He was also eccentric and controversial.  He helped popularize the sixties’ innovation of new journalism, a deviation from the simple straight reporting of facts. HST’s version was dubbed Gonzo, in which he became a central character and integral part of the narrative. The impetus was the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Thompson was in town as a news correspondent. Riots ensued and he discovered much to his shock, the press credentials he carried provided little protection. He was soon swept into melee and became part of his own story courtesy of a Chicago Police Department night stick.
Thompson’s commentary on life and politics in America is still remarkably fresh and relevant. But what fascinates me most is our common interests. Hunter, for example, was a gun enthusiast and devout 2nd Amendment advocate. He had an extensive collection of firearms that he loved to practice with at his Colorado estate, Owl Farm. This property was purchased in part with the advance from Hell’s Angels. The down payment was $10,000; chump change now, was big money in 1968. There he also engaged in another of my passions, riding dirt bikes. He didn’t buy quite enough land though, since later in life numerous complaints were lodged about his bizarre antics, such as blazing away with various weapons into the wee hours. In the end, the Aspen area where he lived saw the millionaires pushed out by the billionaires. 
Thompson’s career accomplishments included twelve books, many of which were best-sellers, along with hundreds of magazine articles. Many of these were commissioned by Rolling Stone. He also did a piece for Cycle World Magazine. That same publication presented me with my first rejection slip. To reel Hunter in, the editor enticed him with a brand new Ducati to review. I should be so lucky. Hunter being Hunter, the resulting story, Song of the Sausage Creature had to be cleaned up so as to be presentable in a family format. Many authors look down their noses at the literary relevance of magazine articles, but I disagree. They are a good foundation and venue for floating ideas that may one day grow into larger works. I think Hunter would concur.
Thompson had trouble separating the wild and crazy in-print persona he had created from the real-life one. They increasingly became one and the same.  Like Jack Kerouac, he was tormented by substance-fueled demons. They killed him in in the form of a self-inflicted bullet to-the-head at 67-years-old. Chalk up another victory for drugs and alcohol.
A life-long dream of mine is to own property where I can do much the same as Hunter, that is ride dirt bikes and shoot guns. Presently, I don’t have a big advance to back me up, or even a little one.  But I am heartened by Rider Magazine’s purchase and publication of three of my stories.  I hope to cultivate a long-term relationship with them. And maybe if I keep at it, I can one day move onto bigger things and earn enough to buy my own little piece of dirt.
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Rider Magazine links

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I’ve had a bit of luck in the writing game. Five of my stories have been accepted for publication by Rider Magazine. Three are presented here. The first two were based on my 2011 Alaska ride. Adventure on the Alcan: From Dawson Creek to Delta Junction and Beyond, centers on the Alaska Highway portion. It ran in October 2013. The Haul Road: Taming Alaska’s Dalton Highway covers the Arctic portion. It ran in the April 2012 issue. Windblown Amy: Artist Rider Survivor is the third piece. It is a story I wanted to write ever since my first Alaska ride but didn’t feel I had the skill to do justice to until now. It centers on a remarkable female rider I met on the road to Alaska. Bleeding Kansas and The Tiddler Run are slated for future publication. I’ll post an update when they run.

Writing is a solitary endeavor. Still, numerous people have helped along the way. Rider Editor-in-Chief Mark Tuttle gave me a big break. I also want to thank the Modern Language Department at Purdue North Central, particularly my professors Sarah White and Jerry Holt. I wouldn’t have gotten this far without them.

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dog and dragonfly

riding to write


The clock was ticking. The Strom just turned 17,000 miles, and while it was running fine, that’s a couple of thousand past its recommended valve inspection. Long experience has revealed the first check normally requires no shimming. Still, while some riders push the limit, I find riding on borrowed miles less enjoyable. It seems I just can’t put the image of the whirling valve train pounding itself to powder as I crank down the interstate. 
The actual procedure on the Strom is pretty straight forward; its hybrid gear/chain drive configuration means that if adjustment is needed, the cams can be removed in seconds. That is however, after contending with acres of plastic and the attending assortment of tabs, any of which are just begging to be snapped off at the slightest provocation. 
I think there is a purpose to the jigsaw like quality to the panel fitment; the lack of exposed hardware is a thing of beauty, and the engineers obviously spend a lot of time to achieve it. Personally, I could live with more exposed Allen bolts; the resulting industrial quality might prove to be a marketing tool. In any case, I was able to remove the tank fairings with nary a plastic casualty.
Digging in, I should have snapped a picture of the K&N as it was pretty well packed with crud, much of it left over from the Dalton no doubt. The most unique artifact was a fully intact dragonfly lodged in the intake horn. I wonder what he was thinking as he got sucked into the hurricane-like vortex.Chief, our loyal Rottweiler mix, had been supervising the proceedings. His reaction was to try and eat the unfortunate critter.
The front cylinder checked right in the middle of the range, so I let it be. In the rear, both exhausts and intakes were close to the limit, so broke out the handy Hot Cams shim kit. I always try and have all the parts needed on hand to avoid delays, but somehow I neglected to order the smallest, but most critical item. No problem, Dennis Kirk had it on my doorstep within 48 hours. 
The exhausts came into spec easily. One intake however, gave me fits, requiring removal and replacement of the cam five times. Now this job takes a bit of addition and subtraction, but it ain’t rocket science. Had I been dealing with an inline four such as the Bandit, pulling the cams that many times would have been a major hassle. At any rate, I finally got the desired reading and buttoned the top end up. New plugs are also part of the deal, the Strom calling for a weird looking dual electrode job. 
Paying homage to Murphy and his law, I always elect to start a freshly tuned motor sans body work. Inevitably, there will be some leak or forgotten doohickey requiring another round of plastic removal and attending tab destruction. Not this time though. One punch of the starter and the v-twin roared to life; just a bit of exhaust smoke from excess air filter oil burning off. After the warm up, I wrapped the throttle. Whoa, the response was much sharper, kind of like when the bike was new. I doubt the improvement was from the valves, as they weren’t that far out. Nor could it be the new NGKs, as the original plugs looked fine. No, I think the improvement has to be credited to dislodging of the dear departed dragonfly from his final resting place. And had he not met his untimely demise, oh the stories of the road he could have told!
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girls and guns

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In contrast to my life-long love of motorcycles, I didn’t become interested in firearms until I was in my twenties, about the same time we started a family. As our four daughters became more inquisitive my wife insisted I secure the guns. This was accomplished with a safe. We also decided it would be good to familiarize them with firearms. After all, there are millions of them in America. 
The way I went about this was to make it into sort of a Daddy/Daughter date, but with gunpowder standing in for the flowers. When each of them turned seven we went for breakfast, after which we stopped at a nearby indoor shooting range for a some paper punching with a Marlin Little Buckaroo .22 rifle. Later, we took trips to an outdoor range and shot objects such as plywood. The lesson being if the bullet will penetrate wood, it will also put a hole in a person. Of course, on each trip we stressed the rules of safe gun handling.023
 Another important consideration was removing the lure of forbidden fruit. Our youngest constantly asked to handle the guns. I always tried to accommodate, showing her how to check and clear them each time. We never had a problem with unauthorized usage. Today, she is a career Army officer and still likes to shoot for recreation. Her sisters don’t currently have a strong interest in guns, but are glad they experienced them as kids. I’m looking forward to carrying on the tradition with my grandchildren. After all, there are a bunch of guns in the good old USA. 012
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They only come out at night.

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fxstc-2526-me-3  Sorry I haven’t posted for a while, I’ve been very busy at school. Anyway, here’s a little story I put together for my English fiction class. Its based on a picture from The People of Walmart site. I think we’ve all been there. Check it out.
                            They only come out at night.                                                         
                                                           
Halloween is over, yet they dress up just the same. Spiked hair, piercings, fish-net stockings and black leather abound. The midnight hour approaches. They’re herded to center aisle. Self-serve registers look tempting. The automated voice: please swipe your purchase and deposit payment, drones on and on. But without fail, they take longer than the flesh-and-blood type.  I fall in behind a guy waiting to pay for five gallons of tea. He’s wearing a pink kilt. No one else seems to notice. A robust young female cuts in front of kilt guy; he’s in a daze and doesn’t seem to care. But, she’s hard to ignore: thigh-high boots; lace camisole barely concealing a camouflage sport bra; semi-sheer short-shorts do their best to reel in a purple thong. They’re losing the fight. Elvis it seems, is also alive and well. He makes a weekly appearance to reward the faithful with a glimpse of royalty. Turns out he lives at the old folks’ home up the road, not Graceland; thank you very much. The line inches forward. A gum chewing cashier takes kilt guy’s money.
“NEXT.”
Startled. “Who me?”
“Yeah you, biker dude, nice costume, welcome to Walmart.”
Hmmm, black leather jacket, black jeans, black boots, black tee shirt. Maybe I’m a Wal-martian too!
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The Bandit and Strom on the Alaska Highway

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My newly acquired V-Strom 1000 meets my 1250 Bandit, New Year’s Day, 2011

Ever since I returned from my second Alaska ride last July, I’ve wanted to post a few thoughts on the two bikes that carried me there.  For those just tuning in, both were 2007 Suzuki’s that I purchased new. A Bandit 1250 was my mount in 2008. And a non-current model V-Strom 1000 was used on the most recent ride, one that took me all the way to Prudhoe Bay. Obviously both traversed the length of the Alaska Highway and back, and crossed the vast prairie lands of Western Canada in the process.

The Alaska Highway, July, 2008

Both machines were totally reliable, with a minor electrical glitch on the Bandit taken care of under warranty being the only issue. As I’ve stated on this blog before, the Bandit’s inline-four is superior in power. The Strom’s 90 degree v-twin just can’t match the four’s wide power band and low end grunt. The Bandit will easily lug down to 2500 RPM in 6th, whereas anything under 3000 RPM or around 60 mph has the Strom asking for a downshift.

The Alaska Highway, July, 2011
 As a practical matter, there was nothing on the ride the Strom’s motor couldn’t handle. Both bikes knock down mileage in the low forties, with the Strom having a slight advantage of a couple MPG. Combining that with its 5.8 gallon, versus the Bandit’s 5.0 capacity gives it an edge in range, around 240 to 200. But since the longest stretch on the Alaska Highway without services is about 120 miles, neither bike had me worried about having to push them. The Dalton Highway is another story. From Coldfoot to Prudhoe Bay it is 240 long, lonely miles with no services whatsoever. The Strom made on one tank, but literally on fumes; it died in the parking lot of the Arctic Caribou Inn. I did not ride the Bandit that far north, but extra fuel would have been mandatory if it were to go the distance. And I did carry an extra gallon on the Strom for insurance.

Arctic Caribou Inn, Prudhoe Bay Alaska, July 2011
Comfort wise, the Strom’s larger fairing, upright riding posture and better saddle made the five to six hundred mile days much more pleasant than on the Bandit. In fact, the latest ride’s final day tally of 1400 miles in 28 hours probably wouldn’t have been possible other wise. Both bikes carried the same set of Givi luggage: PLX 35 side cases and 46 liter top box. Even loaded with a large amount of gear both bikes were completely stable, even on the worst frost heaves in the Yukon.
To expound a bit on the subject of handling; even though equipped with  budget suspension components, both machines were solid performers. One particular hundred-mile stretch of the Alaska Highway stands out. Loaded with twists and turns, the road gives the suspension, tires and brakes a thorough workout. Both bikes stuck to the pavement and were an absolute blast!  For the record, the Strom was shod with Bridgestone Trailwings, and the Bandit rode on Avon Storm AV 46 Azaros. Each set of rubber did the job, however the rear tires were in need of replacement far sooner than normal. The roads of the north eat rubber. For the Dalton Highway, I had a set of Continental TCK 80s installed in Fairbanks. I am sure that they were largely responsible for my surviving the muddy conditions I encountered there.

Atigun Pass on the Dalton Highway July, 2011
The pair still reside in my garage, and I don’t plan on selling either one! The Bandit is now used for short hops, and the Strom will be my serious travelling machine. This is mostly due to its superior level of comfort. As an aside, this was not my last ride to Alaska. The next trip will center on  the western side of the Rockies, and take me to Hyder Alaska. From there I’ll head for Haines Junction , home of the Village Bakery, the best in the Yukon, as I work my way to Haines Alaska for a  ferry ride south.

Eventually, I would  like to ride the Canol Road and the Demster Highway, both of which terminate in the Northwest Territories. And maybe even take another crack at the Dalton. However, my experiences on that road have convinced me that nothing larger than an 800 should be ridden, as a lighter bike would be of great value. The newly revised V-Strom looks interesting, but as a 650 I don’t think the power output will match the still substantial weight. It is after all based on the ten-year-old 1000. Hopefully in the next few years Suzuki will come out with a truly new adventure–tourer. I have been a big fan of their machines since my teen years on a TS-90 Honcho and TS and TM 125s. I would like to continue the tradition.
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Alaska Ride 2011: keep pushin on

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Okay, one more song title. Thanks to REO Speedwagon for capturing the moment.

I called a friend tonight who has been following the blog closely. He said I kind of left everyone hanging with the last post, and  until my call, didn’t know if I’d made it back or not.Well, I’m here safe and sound in Valparaiso Indiana, a place scorched by the heat wave that I avoided  for almost three weeks.Sorry for the lapse, but the last day covered 1400 miles, in around 28 hours. When I got home, I petted the dog, hugged my wife, peeled my riding suit off to my bicycle shorts, lay down on the garage floor and promptly fell asleep.

My last post left off in Saskatoon SK, about 300 miles from the border. I headed south in cool temperatures, but with a vicious wind from the west flanking me for the better part of 600 miles until I pointed the Strom east on I-94.

My desired crossing point of Portal ND was inaccessible due to flooding; a sign advised of a detour to Raymond MT,an extra  100 miles  to the west.Not good. I enquired at a gas station and learned the Port of Oungre while not a 24 hour facility, was only an extra 40 or so miles out of the way. As I rode south, I was struck by what appeared to be small lakes, complete with white-caps , but were in reality, flooded fields. The border post, is situated in some of the bleakest landscape this side of the moon imaginable. There was literally nothing for 50 miles, and even with my extra fuel, and the Strom’s good range, I was glad I filled up in Canada.

The ride through North Dakota, revealed the devastation from the flooding that dogged me on the way up, and more recent examples.I even heard that I-94 had been reduced to one lane in the area of Bismark.

One of my most fervent desires was to avoid Minnesota during high traffic hours. This was due to my miserable ride through the state on day one.To that end I decided to ride all night. Once again, like a bad dream, I was greeted by signs that alerted the rest areas were closed. Funny, they closed the day I entered the state, and were reputed to open the day after I left. Maybe they just don’t like me. But whatever the case, the closure of important public assets, to make a political point is inexcusable;the money wasted on signs, barricades, and fencing could easily have kept them open, at least to a limited degree. These rest areas are vital to the safety of all travelers. And since they are on an interstate, they belong to all Americans.

At some point during the long night, I noticed that I was weaving badly, so at a gas stop, I found a dark corner  and caught 20 minutes of shut-eye. Revitalized by the bit of sleep, and driven by a burning desire to vacate the state, I pushed into Wisconsin. There at the first rest area, I took a proper nap on one of the fine benches provided.

Illinois, the land of toll-ways, was now all that stood in my way. My frequent breaks placed me around the dreaded O’Hare area mid-morning. Once again, the I-pass made short work of the run. This is one area Illinois excels; one literally can pass through the toll counters at full speed. Indiana among other states can learn from them on that score.In a losing argument with the Garmin, I found myself broiling on the Eisenhower, but since traffic was relatively light, (by Chicago standards) I was soon crossing the line into the Hoosier state.

Today’s activities consisted of sleep, and trying to get the rest of the Dalton off of the Strom.That task is proving to be difficult, and it won’t be soon  accomplished. The Dalton however will never be purged from my spirit.

The Strom, that a mere three weeks ago was  a bright and shiny, new steed, now has character. With just under 10,000 miles on the clock. The chain will need to be replaced, as will the rear disc, scored by the metal to metal contact.It is on it’s third set of rear pads.Chalk that up to the Dalton.  My boots and riding suit, also sparkling clean at the start of this adventure, now display the appearance of been dragged down a bad road for hundreds of miles.I am five pounds lighter, despite eating whatever was available, and not exercising for three weeks. That is, other than wrestling 600 plus pounds of machine down a rugged road.

So where does ridetowrite.com go from here?My plan is to evaluate the ride, bike, gear, and equipment and report what I have found.Also, I want to follow up with some of the interesting people I met on the road. And while I am no expert in motorcycle travel, I have done a bit of it. Enough to make a number of mistakes, and even some good calls. I will expand and evaluate for those who are interested, right here.And for all of you who rode along, thank you. It was great having you by my side.

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