A Long Ride

You don’t want to ride on the Blue Ridge Parkway before nine a.m. or after six p.m. unless you want to hit a deer. I pushed it a little Tuesday evening, riding past a motel and a lodge because I didn’t like the first and the second was too expensive. At that point it was totally dark and I was looking for any motel, no matter the price or quality. I pulled off the parkway in Laurel Springs, North Carolina, and rode up to a place with several Harleys and a beautifully restored Indian out front. Then I noticed the sign: Station’s Inn Motorcycle Resort. I just happened upon the only motorcycle resort on the entire Blue Ride Parkway! After a pizza and a beer, I was ready to go to bed, but instead I stayed up and had a great time with everyone in the bar. I’ve often felt like I’m traveling to different worlds on this trip, and Laurel Springs was a fun, hospitable and friendly world. Bruce and Vonnie, Kim and Jim - thanks for the great time! I’ve had some good luck and some bad, but this time I was just dumb lucky.

Kim, myself, and Vonnie.

Kim kick-starting Bruce’s 1949 Indian.

The Esso station across the street.

I stopped in a campground in Shenandoah National Park Monday evening, my first attempt at camping since the bear incident. All my instincts were saying “no, no, NO” when I got to the campground. It was dark, there was a huge “This is bear country” sign at the entrance, and the Deliverance guy sitting in the campground across from me was belching huge beer burps. So I packed all my stuff back in the saddlebags (I had not yet set up the tent), and went to a hotel. The owner of the hotel told me that they’ve had a lot of bear problems in the area, and when I unpacked my food and camping supplies bag, I found that one of my instant cinnamon oatmeal packets had ripped. I was broadcasting sweet smells for every animal in the area. It was a little depressing sitting in a hotel in the middle of nowhere, especially after leaving New York and all the people I met there, but I’m glad I followed my intuition. I’ll take loneliness over the company of a bear in my campsite every single time. I’ll go camping again once I’ve had a chance to clean and air out all my stuff.

Natural light is a precious commodity among all the high rises. Here’s one way to get light to the interior.

The parks offer a needed respite from the frantic pace outside.

Goofing off with flash bulb light and a couple of tourists from Iceland.

The energy in New York City is addicting. I got into town and it was like entering another world. I immediately decided to stay a couple days.

Times Square was fun…

I ended up bar-hopping with a guy named Les from the hostel. The Miss America contest was on the TV and I made a makeshift tiara for one of the ladies at the bar…

The energy in the club was too much for this guy to handle, so he fell asleep.

I got a late start on the ride from Vermont, and halfway to Boston I got stuck in The Wrath of God Storm that felt like a never-ending line of guys slinging bucketfuls of water on me. I got into Boston at around 9:00 p.m., checked into the hostel, was quoted $36 for 12 hours of parking a motorcycle(!), then went for a walk around the city. The next day I left, and it felt like the most pointless visit to a big city ever. I didn’t see much of Boston, but at least I got a driving tour of the city when I got lost trying to find the interstate. You just can’t visit Boston in an evening and an afternoon, but I felt like I did a few things right. I had the best slice of pizza I’ve ever eaten, I met a couple of really nice guys from Turkey, and my California lane-splitting skills came in handy when I got to the parking garage barrier. Call me a thief, a cheat, whatever: I am not paying $36 for 12 hours of parking a motorcycle!

I crossed the border at Champlain, New York and then immediately rode into Vermont. It’s an interesting thing for a California boy to see towns with signs saying “chartered 1780.” We don’t have much of anything on the west coast older than 100 or so years. I though the northeastern towns might remind me of Europe, but they really didn’t. They looked and felt distinctly American.

I had about an hour of sunshine, then stopped at a restaurant when the first raindrops started. There were a couple of guys from New Hampshire on a weekend ride, and an older bicyclist on a cross-country trip. I started talking to them, and we all ended up eating lunch together. The bicyclist’s name is Ben Johnson, he’s 74 years old and he’s riding his bicycle 100 days cross-country by himself, starting in Washington state and ending at Bar Harbor, Maine. We were laughing about how he had to stop in at a country doctor’s office to weigh himself, to convince his wife that he was eating well and not losing weight. What a cool guy.

Then the rain started. I don’t know if it had anything to do with the tropical storms that have been hitting the entire country, but I have never, ever, seen such hard rain. There were huge pools of water covering the road in so many places. The only reason I didn’t stop at a hotel is because I had a reservation in Boston. Next time I’ll just stop, because it was a miserable ride.

It’s getting a little bit ridiculous when you need a diesel big rig to pull all your stuff. I thought I was being excessive when I put a trunk on my motorcycle! The hottest thing in RVing seems to be a bus-sized rig pulling a Jeep. I haven’t yet seen more than two people inside one of these things. I yell “Where’s your Jeep?!” whenever I pass one of these road monsters, and at least 2/3 of the time, it’s being pulled along behind, with all the rest of their stuff.

It has rained pretty hard the last couple of days, but the suit, overboots and waterproof gloves have kept me dry. I look like an astronaut when I walk in to a place, but thankfully it all comes off in about 20 seconds, and I’ve got jeans and a t-shirt underneath. This morning I went through hail for about ten minutes before I gave up and stopped at a restaurant to wait out the weather. I had a great conversation - my French Canadian waitress was a shameless and vulgar flirt, about 50 years old.

Update: I spent two days riding through a monsoon in Vermont and Massachusetts, and I ended up soaked to the bone. Now I’m a wet dork.

I’m above the Great Lakes, in Canada now, and last night I couldn’t find an available hotel room anywhere from Rossport to Marathon along the Trans-Canada Highway. Marathon, Ontario is the last city of any size for about 60 miles, and the road was foggy, completely dark now, and wet from the heavy rain. A guy literally scooped the last hotel room in town right out from under me (he could get out of his car faster than I could get off the bike and take my helmet off). So I went to the local campground, even though setting up a tent in the dark and rain is no fun. What else could I do? I got it set up and got into the sleeping bag and went to sleep right away - I was tired.

I woke up when I felt something hit my foot hard and heard a sound of heavy breathing and wheezing. I was still in a sleep daze… a moose? Then a paw about the size of my head was outlined through the sheer tent fabric as it hit again. Instant awake now, because there is a bear outside. It pawed at the tent one more time, making the entire tent spring up and down. I think I hit at the paw, but I don’t really remember, I was so panicked. I had taken my bags into the tent, and there was food and laundry detergent, and all the other strong-smelling things that you’re not supposed to bring in. The bear must have had its nose literally on the tent, because that’s all I heard: a sort of snuffling and snorting, very loud, almost sucking sound. It pawed at the tent again, and I thought, “I’ll throw the bags outside and let it rip those up - maybe it will go away then.” My new tent has the world’s loudest zipper, which can be a real pain late at night when it’s quiet, but I think that’s what saved me. I opened up the inner tent zipper super fast (with the rain fly still closed) and the “rrrRRRRRZZZZIPPP” noise of the zipper must have scared it off.

I sat there shaking and moaning for a minute, unsure of whether it was gone or just sitting outside, then took out my cell phone to check the time (I already knew I didn’t have a signal, otherwise I would have called 911). Bad news: it was only a little past midnight, so I was going to be there for a long time. I’m agnostic in general, but I was a fervent Christian in that tent, begging, “please God, don’t let it come back.” After scribbling a few minutes in my journal to calm myself and try to think straight, I spent the entire night sitting up with my head in my hands, listening to every sound of the rain and wet forest outside. My back hurts just thinking about the tension. Every drop of water dripping off a tree leaf sounds like a footstep. Multiply that times a forestful of trees, then add in every other animal’s night sounds.

At about 4AM, I packed up everything in the tent, including the sleeping bag, and put on my motorcycle suit and waited for daylight. I figured if the suit can protect against impacts and abrasion in a crash, it might help protect me from an attacking bear. I had my helmet right next to me, too. I waited through the false dawn until I could see my motorcycle outside, then I broke camp faster and more efficiently than I will ever be able to do again. My head was on a swivel the whole time.

I’ve never been more happy to be on the road. I stopped at the gas station and was instantly nervously jabbering with the lady tending the pumps. “A bear, a bear! Hee hee, he almost got me!” She barely raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, we got so many, we get them coming into the parking lot at the mall.” “The government stopped the spring bear hunt to keep from orphaning cubs, and ever since then there’s been a population explosion - they’ve counted thirty of them at the local dump.” The campsite (run by the Lions Club) had no mention on the bulletin board of any bear problem. It was my own fault, a total brain fart, but it would have been nice to have SOME warning that, oh by the way, this area is overrun with 600-700 lb. black bears.

To top things off, I got a speeding ticket this afternoon, and no amount of pleading or begging the lady Ontario Province Police officer made any difference. I told her about the bear, and that I had a lot on my mind, and I let the speed get too high on accident, etc… the bitch was having none of it. I have to pay $280 Canadian that I don’t have, and heading north to Canada is looking like a bad idea in retrospect. Both bad things are my own fault and could have been prevented, which only makes them worse.

I’ve decided that I need to catch the downhill spiral of my trip right away. Needless to say, I’m not camping tonight. I’m in a nice three-star hotel in downtown Rouyn-Noranda, Quebec, which is extravagant compared to the rest of my accomodations. I’m treating myself to a nice hotel in a nice town and a nice meal. Perspective also helps: I’ve had a bad 24 hours, after ten or so positively perfect days. That’s not a bad ratio! Hell, now I have a story to give my future grandkids nightmares!

And I’m never going to bring anything except a sleeping bag, an air mattress and a flashlight into any tent ever again.

I managed to kill the most beautiful bird in the world, and I really feel bad about it. I was riding in the Cheyenne River Indian Reservation in South Dakota, which is mostly rolling hills and roads straight as arrows. I came around a gentle right turn at high speed, and by the time I noticed them, the two birds were almost under my front wheel. One of them flew up and I hit the front brake hard and ducked behind the windscreen. I didn’t feel it hit, but as I was rolling to a stop, I saw a cloud of feathers in my rear view mirror and the bird spinning impossibly high in the air. If the initial impact didn’t kill him, the impact with the ground sure did. I don’t know what kind of bird it is, but it looks like a cross between a wild turkey and a peacock. Only a half hour before, I had pulled over out of respect and curiosity to let an Indian funeral procession go by, with men drumming and chanting in the lead car, so mortality was on my mind. I’m sure glad it wasn’t a deer; otherwise someone might have been taking photos of me. I’m sorry, bird.

Update: The bird is a male Ring-Necked Pheasant, the state bird of South Dakota. More info is available here.

The Black Hills area of South Dakota reminds me of Reno, Nevada, and that’s not a compliment. It’s a casino-driven tourist trap sprawl from Spearfish to Wall Drug. I know that what I call “tourist trap” some will call “Americana.” I think I made a really good decision by heading north off interstate 90. The northeast area of South Dakota that I rode through in the evening was like fresh water after escaping the intense heat and kitsch of the southwest.

What is it about gambling that cheapens everything? Here’s a sampling of the signs I saw: 99¢ Breakfast Buffet! Pony Rides! Pig Races! The Kids WILL LOVE IT! See a CAVE! Oh by the way, mom and dad, there are also slot machines while you’re there.

Is Mount Rushmore tacky or beautiful? There’s no argument that it’s well done, but the piped-in marching band music and reverent patriotism were definitely grating. The headline of the newspaper they hand you after you pay $8 for parking reads: “Welcome To The Shrine Of Democracy.” That seems presumptuous, but maybe it’s just part of the local tendency to exaggerate. I was happy to leave the Black Hills of South Dakota.

This photo and the one below were taken in the Cheyenne River Indian Reservation, northeast of the Black Hills area. This type of place is more to my liking: open, low population density and beautiful huge vistas.

I got into my campsite in Grand Teton a little after dark, and as I was driving down the road I saw some shapes on the roadway… cattle? Nope, wild bison. I had seen a sign when I turned off the main road that said “caution: open range.” Oh, so that’s what that means! In addition to bison I saw a fox and lots of elk and deer (not on the road!). The photo above is from the next day, near the northeast entrance to the park, the most beautiful area that I rode through.

All you ever hear about Idaho is potatoes, so ever since I was a kid I pictured it as one long, flat potato field. When I got into Boise, I thought I had it about right, but with traffic congestion added. I spent a few hours getting my rear tire replaced, then took off east toward Stanley on Highway 21 to scrub in the new tire. What gorgeous countryside! Everyone has heard of Ketchum and the Sun Valley, but I didn’t like them at all (wayyy too rich and touristy for my tastes). If you like wide open spaces and a great road, this is the area you want to see. I camped above Idaho City and then spent the next day enjoying this kind of scenery:

This is George Schnee, who runs Schnee’s Grocery in Mitchell, Oregon. I’ve met a lot of interesting people already, and George struck me as a genuinely cool guy. He’s also the one that told me about the RV park in Dayville that I enjoyed so much. Thanks George!

The geology is fascinating in this area. Huge uplifted slabs at an angle - does anyone know how these are formed? There’s a canyon just west of here that was great fun ripping through on the motorcycle, but I was told later that someone had killed themselves on a bike there the day before. There’s literally no runoff, so if you make a mistake, it’s going to be bad. I’ll go slower next time.

This is the best $8 I’ve ever spent. Mike, the owner, keeps it absolutely immaculate. The grass is like a putting green, and the bathrooms, showers and laundry are as clean as the best hotels. Great place.

I’ve got internet access in this campground, so I’m going to get caught up on some photos. Lassen was spectacular, and the roads were twisting and beautifully paved. Too bad for the 35mph speed limit (although I totally understand why it’s there). I went for a short hike a little past the area shown in the photo, and when I touched a tree I accidentally got pine sap on my hands. I’m very allergic, and I rode the rest of the day with a splitting migraine. I was glad to get to the campsite that evening!

I’ve camped every night, paying anywhere from $18 (Crater Lake) to $0 (the woods above Idaho City). Before this trip I had never camped on a motorcycle, and only done a little bit of camping at all. I like it. The only reason I rented a cabin tonight is because I hadn’t had a shower for three days. I knew I was getting a little ripe when the animals started giving me dirty looks when I passed. The photo above is the first night, when I shared dinner with a couple from San Francisco (thanks for the brat!).

I’m in Silver Gate, Montana, which is just east of Yellowstone. This is some of the most beautiful countryside I have ever seen, and it keeps getting better, from western Oregon, through Idaho and into Wyoming. If I had a highlight so far, it would be the ride into Stanley, Idaho. Just gorgeous views and a great little restaurant. This is the first time I’ve had access to a phone line, but hopefully I’ll be able to check in more often!

It’s a bit of a false start, since I’m staying with my family in the San Francisco Bay Area tonight, but I’m now on the road. The ride up was uneventful, except for a guy on a Harley Sportster trying to drag race me on the freeway. Uhhh… yeah right, buddy. Tomorrow will be my first day camping, somewhere in northeastern California. Wish me good luck and good weather!

I’m leaving in six or seven days. Six if I can find a campground or inexpensive hotel reservation for Sunday, seven if I can’t. When I planned my trip, I totally forgot about Labor Day weekend being the busiest of the year. It should be much easier after the first weekend, when everyone goes back to work, and I leave the population density of California behind. I’ve got just about everything ready. My motorcycle is getting a small tune-up tomorrow, and I still need to buy the last few supplies: fresh batteries for the flashlight, gas containers for the stove and lantern, a first-aid kit, etc. One week to go!

This guy is a true original. In the summer of 1978, Walter Muma rode a 50cc moped across Canada and Alaska all the way north of the Arctic Circle to the “End of the Road,” the town of Inuvik, Northwest Territories. Riding 100-300 miles per day for 97 days, he covered 11,518 miles and spent only $106 Canadian on gas (averaging 150mpg). He didn’t spend much on lodging, either, as you can see on this page. Now that is a long ride!