Drama Galore...

Just a quick, off the cuff, note today.

If I wrote out the details of yesterday, the above title would be most fitting. All is well now but Thursday had more drama/adventure than I really needed, including running out of gas on a remote road that warned of “Night Dangers,” when Moose and bear roam the area. One gas station that was on the “fill” list was abandoned, which threw me and many people off. I wrote lengthy notes about it but have no time to share it all. Instead, here are two amusing communication glitches with Canadians.

Permit me to first say this: the roads are absolutely magnificent! Majestic is the only word to describe the 200 plus miles of Highway 17 I rode yesterday. Rolling hills characterize this long journey. The weather was in the upper 70s, perhaps low 80s. The sky was blue, sprinkled with puffy white clouds. Some of the hills were so high that I imagined Queenie flipping over backwards during the ascents. Lots of deep and angled curves, (blind curves too). The way is lined with amazing vistas, rock formations, and scenic lookouts and not surprisingly, Highway 17 is relatively isolated. For the most part, I’ll take Highway 17 all the way to Thunder Bay, some 675 miles from the International Bridge in Sault Ste. Marie. Signs abound warning travelers of wildlife and night dangers. NO GAS stations for many miles (e.g., 50 plus) If one is closed, perhaps no gas station for more than 100 miles.

Communication glitch #1Two motorcyclists enter a scenic lookout. We do the requisite wave. I never ask people to take pictures of me. Never. However, this time I wanted one of me and the bike in front of the typical rock formation that lines Highway 17. I walk up to the woman and ask as I’m extending my digital camera. She nodded affirmatively, took the camera and snapped the pic of Queenie and me in front of the rocks.

Afterwards, I thanked her and her male companion came over to join us. We chatted and I immediately recognized their accent as French. Their English was definitely better than my nonexistent French was. She told me they were from Montreal and circling Lake Superior. It sounded like she said they either had gone around it ten times or were planning to.

“How any times you go around?”
I respond, “Just once.”
“No, how many times you go around?” She repeats herself only this time she emphasizes each word.
I emphasize my response, “One time. I’m going around one time.” That’s when she tells me they are going around about 10 times. I am confused as she presses me for a different response. She looks to her male companion. He says, using his finger to make the universal sign for circle, “How many..? We go about ten to twelve.”

It then dawns on me that they are asking me how LONG it will take me to go around the lake or how much time was I allowing myself to circle the lake.
“Oh, you mean how many days will I take to circle the lake?”

Their faces brighten, they smile and nod affirmatively.
“I’m taking 7 to 10 days.” We all laugh, chat some more and finally wish each other safe travels and leave.

Communication glitch #2

I call a hotel in Wawa, Ontario. Only two in a magazine state, “Hi Speed Internet Access,” making the choices slim. At the first number, the man tells me he as two rooms left. One room is slightly higher prices because it has been newly renovated. My stay is one night; I go for the undecorated room. I think he says this: “It is nice too but not clean. The renovated room is very nice, clean has one bed…”

I respond, “Isn’t the other room clean?”
“No, but it’s nice too—but no clean.”
“Well I want the room to be clean.”
“It’s okay for you—but it’s real nice.”


The conversation continues like that for what seemed like a long time but was actually only a minute or so. Finally, I asked about the room again and this time I spell the word “clean.”
He quickly states, “Yes, it’s clean, very clean but there is no Queen bed.”
He said Queen and assumed I heard Queen. What I heard was a guy overtly telling me the room wasn’t clean.

The room is extremely clean. The host is an interesting person, who is a Polish immigrant. He gave me a special place to park Queenie.

All is well…until next time...

Curly Rides

Like the waters yesterday, this is rough...

Wednesday was a great riding day! Perfect weather, azure skies and just enough wind to keep things interesting.

Those bug-eyed gaukers who populated the restaurant Tuesday night had to be tourists and not representative of the residents in Paradise. On Wednesday morn, while mailing some items home, I met the friendliest people in Paradise, many of them in the Post Office and some who happen to be walking along the road as I was fiddling with the straps anchoring my gear. I’ll remember the woman who appeared in her late 80s, barely able to walk with her cane, who said—with an unmistakable twinkle in her eyes, “Now that looks like fun…are you going far?” We chatted for a bit. When we finished our conversation, another woman pulled up in her truck along side the road (it’s so clear that I’m from out of town) and said, “How are you?” She wanted to know where I was headed. She went on to say, “What a great way to have an adventure…you’ll remember this for the rest of your life. Good for you.” She sounded as if she too longed for an adventure of her own. Others wanted to know how was my stay in Paradise. I left Paradise feeling refreshed, welcomed and lighter—I mailed the camping gear home—it’s not happening on this trip; I have no regrets about that. Have none for me.

The roads from Paradise to Whitefish Point require a detour to the Upper and Lower Tahquamenon Falls in the State Park by the same name. This is a gorgeous park of 38,500 acres that stretch over 13 miles of unspoiled woodland. The red water from the falls is the result of tannin from the various trees in the park (e.g., hemlock, spruce and cedar). Wonderful stop, breath-taking scenery and lots of hiking, exploring, and enjoying nature’s beauty.

An hour or so away is Whitefish Point, a place I’ve long to go. It is a beautiful ride. One can travel for a few miles without following another vehicle or having one follow you. I’m accustomed to the road isolation now. Admittedly, there were a couple of times I wondered where was the rest of the world. I can’t help thinking about the crotch-rocket bikers in the big city—they would tear up these roads! The twisties are abundant; the challenges to one’s skills are omnipresent.

At Whitefish Point, (please get out a map and find the area—it is directly north of Paradise. Its tip juts out into Whitefish Bay. Although this is a beautiful, scenic area, it is also the sight of many shipwrecks. There, I visited the Shipwreck Museum, which is tasteful—not tacky- tourist and replete with the amazing history of the ships that have wrecked in this area. The 80-mile stretch of road from Picture Rocks to Whitefish Point is called, “Lake Superior’s Shipwreck Coast.” Reading the history of ships lost was emotional as in the background one could hear among the music played, the voice of Gordon Lightfoot singing is heart-wrenching ballad, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” which I’m listening to on my Ipod as I draft this entry. The lives of these men as well as the lives of the lighthouse keepers and their families were moving tributes to the harsh realities of transporting heavy metal along the lake. Lake Superior is unpredictable, able to change disposition on a dime. The gales of November are particularly brutal and the legend goes that the lake does most of its murderous work then.

One of the most moving experiences at this museum was the video of the retrieval of the Edmund Fitzgerald’s bell. I don’t want to give the impression that the museum is all about the Edmund Fitzgerald because it is not. It is a history of this region’s ship history--the ships lost at and near Whitefish Point. It is also a history of living on this Point. My fascination (probably not the best word) with the E. Fitzgerald is a result of remembering this happening in 1975 as well as the Lightfoot song, which led me to do my own research on the ship and watch every public television show I could on the ship and its crew. Back to the moving experience… In a 15 minute video one witnesses the retrieving of the bell, which brought emotional closure to many of the families whose loved one were never found. Now they have the bell to symbolize this tragic voyage and it is at the museum. Another, duplicate bell was then laid submerged where the ship sank to stand as a permanent headstone for the crew. The video brought together the families of the crew and it’s a good thing the video ended when it did because I think the whole place was ready to cry—at least I was.

I spent a lot of time at the Shipwreck Museum and the grounds surrounding it, which are devoted to living on this land, so near the lake and so far from any life outside of surviving the lake effects. I departed with a deep sense of how the families of the lighthouse keepers lived. Yet, I left Whitefish Point way too early. I missed spending any time at the Whitefish Bird Observatory, which I really wanted to do. Before pulling out, I met a 19 month old little girl—possibly a future motorcycle rider—she and her Dad were checking out the bikes. She patiently watched me prepare to leave, did not flinch when the engine started—in fact, she smiled and gave me an enthusiastic motorcycle wave!

I wanted to get to the Bay Mills Indian Reservation near Brimley.

Any road with the name Curly Lewis has to be great. And the Curly Lewis Memorial Highway did not disappoint. Rather than take M123 south back to M28 and head east to Brimley, I wondered about a little gray line on the map. I asked one of the museum workers about the road, which I’ve heard conflicting information. Some said it was paved, others said it used to be paved and now wasn’t, and the map shows it as paved. This woman told me emphatically that it is not only paved, but if I was planning to go to Brimley, it is THE way to go because it is a wonderful, lightly used route. Oh my goodness! It is all that and a slice of sweet potato pie!

As I said, I’m accustomed to the isolation on the roads. This takes being alone out there up several notches. Curly Lewis is serene, twisty-squiggly, tight in spots and sweeping in others. The trees along each side of the road provide a gentle breeze and the rustling keeps you on the alert for wildlife—this vigilance doesn’t detract one from just sitting back and enjoying the ride. I admit to seeing how fast Queenie wanted to go. We tested 85 mph in a few spots but settled in at 60 but when the signs warned of curves ahead and recommended a drop to 45mph or slower, we obeyed—most of the time. I can only imagine what this must feel like with a naked bike.

Finally reached the Bay Mills Indian Reservation. Didn’t have time to check out the place thoroughly but I’m glad I paused. Some new housing structures, a community college, a headstart program and an elder center. One also can’t miss the large Casino not too far from the Reservation. I also saw an Old Indian Burial Ground but didn’t want to go inside or take pictures to avoid potentially disrespecting another’s sacred symbols. Before leaving Bay Mills, I met a teacher at the community college. He “loves” the people and the town. He’s an “outsider” who lives three hours away but says the commute is wonderful because it is not daily and it allows him to camp out and play tourist too.

From Bay Mills I hopped on M221 south to get on M28, which carried me east to I-75. This was an extremely windy ride that even with a fully loaded bike, I felt as if I were riding on the left edges of the tires the whole way! The ride to Sault Ste Marie, Ontario ended at Sault Ste Marie, MI and a visit to the Soo Locks there. I’m talking three miles that separates the two Ste. Maries but the same chain hotel was twice the price in Canada, so guess where I rested my head last night?

I’m off now to our friends to the North. However, I can’t close this entry without thanking all the motorcyclists I met yesterday, especially the couple from Chicago who are touring parts of Lake Superior and told me to expect long lines getting into Canada because of construction. I thank also the “aging” motorcyclist who dug out his reading glasses to show me a rode on his map. He’s a serious Harley rider who may be crossing over. He’s wants to get a Suzuki V-Strom. I was impressed. I also thank the many women riders I encountered today. Not one solo rider in the bunch, however.

Until next time…

Hellfires and then, Paradise

(Disclaimer: No time to make sure these are flawless entries. These dispatches are rough but designed to let you know I'm doing well. So forgive the errors that might make the reading difficult)

I really am in Paradise. Paradise, MI. Yesterday was replete with “misses.” I missed breakfast and I would feel it later. The goal was to reach Canada and I tried, I really tried. But I realized as I was motoring down M123, trying to make up time for having spent time going to off-the beaten path sights, only to learn that nature would change my plans. Fifty miles here and 50 miles there a few times, adds up. I missed sight after getting near only to find that the road was blocked because of a forest fire. Lots of confusing information about which parts of M123 were open, when, and where.

Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore hugs the lakeshore (hence the name) and I wanted to get as close to it as possible. I think it’s about a 40 miles stretch but less than half of that is paved. So, is it worth it, I thought? The park is northwest of Munising, so it seemed doable. Before leaving the Visitor’s Center (VC) in Munising, I headed across the street to The Dogpatch, which the desk clerk in Marquette said is a nice, casual restaurant. Having missed breakfast again, I decided to try it. Except for feeling like I was the major tourist attraction for children and adults alike, the meal, a whitefish sandwich was excellent (whitefish is big in this area, served with Tartar sauce only—not all the fixings I like to put on it). If folks who look like me can get over the bug-eyed diners and waitstaff, they will enjoy the food at Dogpatch.

The route I had planned, meant I’d just have to turn around, which I knew—I am on vacation, right? But this VC and the next one I stopped at were adamant in their warnings about the forest fire in Luce County, which was spreading and sounded just awful and had some roads closed. People were also being evacuated, at least one area had no electricity, and M 123 was closed in certain parts and open in others. Smoke was blowing west as I was heading east. Understandably, information was contradictory and changing hourly.

For the most part, I continued East on M28 from Munising through Seney, where I had planned to stop at the Seney National Wildlife Refuge, then head north on M77 to Grand Marais. Didn’t happen—at least the Grand Marais trek. It would have been an hour drive just to go to the tip. Not much in terms of paved road east or west of Grand Marais. Fine, more time to spend in Seney. Great decision too. Seney is peaceful, beautiful, and full of natural history. Very helpful visitor’s center, served by a couple who enjoyed telling me their Chicago connections and bragging about their escape from the big city. I wished I had planned to spend an entire day there. If I had a dualsport, the road, a 7 mile wlkderness path would have been great!! One also can walk the many trails (wear long sleeves, the bugs here know this is their territory and they BITE big time!) Based on how much time you have, you can decide on how you want to explore the area. This is a nature lover’s heaven and the birds and insect sounds create an amazing symphony.

While in the parking lot thinking about where to go next, an elderly gent pulled up in an elderly truck. He parked next to me. His name, I learned later is Dr. Richard E. McNeil. He’s a Forrester and UMich graduate. He liked Queenie and was amazed at how she was “outfitted.” We talked about the Refuge, travel and mostly about school. When I told him I’d done some time at UM, he became animated and gave me the history of the place when he attended. He approved of Univ.of Chicago as my alma mater. He described himself as a late bloomer, receiving his BA in 1951 and not receiving his Ph.D. until the 70s. He introduced me to his “associate” a young college student from FL working for the Refuge. He was modest, but he pretty much runs the place. I appreciated his warmth and the memory of him would later prevent me from allowing the next bunch of folks I met to ruin my day.

By the time I left Seney, it was after 4pm. I headed to Newberry. Stopped in a Comfort Inn to make reservations for a Comfort Inn in Sault Ste Marie, Ontario. A very nice woman was telling a man about the road closings. The fire had already devastated a large area, smoke was preventing travel along nearby roads, people were being evacuated and there was no way to take M123 north from Newberry to Tahquamenon Falls State Park, in Paradise MI. However, I could continue east on M28 and go up M123 pass Hulbert. She estimated I needed a couple of hours to do so. From there I called the Ontario Comfort Inn to make reservations. A curt woman told me that she had a line of people all wanting for a room and that I should reserve now or never. Not very customer-friendly...Let me say it was well after 4pm when I made the reservation, which becomes a point of major contention later.

The ride from Newberry to Paradise felt long because there were so few cars on the road once I turned north on the most easterly leg of M123. This is what I thought about: I’m in moose country (they even show them on the map). I scan left and right constantly and at the end of a every long, sweeping curve, particularly those blind curves, I imagine two huge, lumbering moose in the road. I see myself hurling in the air, I go one way, Queenie goes the other and the moose are totally unharmed by it all. Back to reality: I shake off that vision and start singing old Motown hits in my helmet.

By the time I reached Paradise, about an hour’s ride, the sky had turned dark and I smelled rain. The clerk at the Newberry Comfort Inn was skeptical that I could go to the Upper and Lower falls, Whitefish Point, visit the Shipwreck Museum, Bay Mills Indian Reservation AND get to Sault Ste Marie, Ontario by nightfall. But I was on a mission.

When I pulled into Paradise, it was misting. My plans were not going to work out and then it hit me…DUH! This is my vacation! I don’t have to do anything and chasing after sights, trying to meet a self-imposed, artificial deadline—what’s the point?!. A mile or so after getting into Paradise, I saw a Best Western. I pulled in. Inside, a desk clerk was talking to a man whose community had been evacuated. He said he knew his town was next and he wanted to get a jump on the evacuation and needed a room for his family. This was the second hotel I had heard about that was booking up quickly, not only with evacuees but with the many fire fighters who had been called in to assist with the fire.

They had a few rooms left by the time my turn came. I was upgraded from the standard room (two beds) to a lakeside room (one bed) “at no extra charge,” still the price was $150 I asked if there was a particular place to park my bike. The clerk said, “Under the canopy, right out in front. That way your bike won’t get too wet when it rains. In the morning, we have a bucket of towels (she is pointing to the spot) and you can wipe down your bike if it does.” What? Now that’s service that puts love in your heart! The room is spacious and lovely, with a tiny balcony. The beach is less than a stone’s throw and I relaxed by watching a family frolic in the water.

I called the hotel in Sault Ste Marie where I had made reservations. The clerk was furious that I was canceling. By now it was raining in Paradise and I explained that I just couldn’t make it to Ontario before nightfall. Their policy, she told me, is to charge the credit card if the room is canceled after 4pm. I said, “The reservation was made after 4pm so how can I change it before 4pm.” She didn’t care. I reminded her that she told me that the rooms were going quickly and they would have a full house. She didn’t care. Just reiterated their cancellation policy. I suggested she book the room and not charge my credit card. We ended the conversation with her saying, “You’ll have to wait and see.” I will wait. You will read about it in the newspaper, if I’m charged for that room!

I dined in a restaurant near the hotel. It was perhaps one of the most uncomfortable experiences I’ve had. Generally, I don’t care much that people stare. My rule is just don’t touch me or say anything stupid to me. I’m good at ignoring ignorance. But maybe I just wasn’t in the mood. The restaurant was crowded. I asked if I could get a carry out. The cashier said—way too loud for my taste—“No it’s too late and it would just be too much trouble and would take just as much time if you waited to be seated.” Okay…I waited but not before flashing him a look, which I don’t think he understood. About ten minutes later, a woman comes in and sits right next to me at the counter. She asks for a take out and the very same person says, “Well, it’s late, let me go see.” He comes back and takes her carry out order. Now I’m ticked and I wonder where I’ve packed the mace! I want to ask why the kitchen is now able to fulfill a carry out order. Inside I tell myself to let it go. But this guy knew I was ticked because I watched this carry out order transaction with great concern, giving him and the woman an occasional glance when I looked up from my book. When that was over, he said to me, “Can I say you have the most beautiful dreadlocks I’ve ever seen.” I was unmoved. I tried to look friendly but it wasn’t working well. I didn’t wanted to get into the whole debate about my hair, how it is not dread locked (there’s nothing dreadful about them) but decided to let it go—remember I’m on vacation. But he was relentless and clearly wanted to distract me from macing him. He told me that wore “dreads” for many years but eventually had to cut them off. He said his locks were huge, fat, Rasta-style. He then said something that shocked me. He said, “After a few years my hair was molding and it really stank when it was wet because it could never dry and mold was growing all through it.” Ok, now I’ve lost my appetite. I had heard that when white people get “dread locks” they go through some process that helps it to lock, some use glue at the early stage to help it adhere. I heard that some don’t wash it for long periods to facilitate the locking process. I told him and I’m saying it here. No glue or mold is associated with my hair! It is washed regularly. At the end of summer, “when this job is over, I’m getting my locks back” he told me. Only this time, he’s going to have them “more like” mine. I wanted to say, “Good Luck with that,” but just smiled instead.

Dinner was another whitefish sandwich. It was excellent, which I would enjoy later alone in my room. The restaurant eating area was bright. I was, as usual, the only fly in the buttermilk—if you know what I mean. Not an uncommon experience when I travel solo. But tonight I was bothered. Tahhquamenon Falls couldn’t possibly get as much eyeing as I was receiving last evening. In between mouthfuls entire family tables turned to watch me. Because they would all shift at the same time, I knew I was being pointed out. Some people were sly and looked away quickly when I met their eyes. Others just stared, one missed his mouth when he was trying to eat and look at the same time. Staring back didn’t seem to faze some. Others got the message. I’ve written in navel gazing detail about this in my journal so I’ll spare you all the details. However, things got so uncomfortable that I ate a few of the fries and had my server wrap up the meal to go—exactly how I wanted it in the first place! Ordinarily, I would have stayed on general principle but this was one of those days where it was best to pack it in for the night. These are old battles waged on my terms. I will say this, it is sad that parents don’t teach their children better manners…but then again, how can children be expected to learn if their own parents behave like idiots?!

This morning, from the small balcony of my room, I watched the sun rise.
Oh, what beauty.

Marquette--just what the Doctor ordered..

Monday, August 6th.

Stayed in Marquette an extra day—I think I needed to recoup from Sunday. Glad I did. Until now, I'd only passed through Marquette. My hotel, the Econo Lodge on US 41, stands directly across Lake Superior. Never stayed in this chain but I liked that my room is meticulous and on the ground level, which means that Queenie is parked outside my door. I slept well, not once imagining thieves hauling her away. A couple of other bikes were in the lot but neither as cute as my gal-pal leaving me to believe that she’d be the first pilfered.

Marquette is a bustling port city of approximately 20,000 people, making it the largest city in the UP with a proud history that has contributed greatly to the railroad history and rail network across the nation. Called the Queen City of Northern Michigan, Marquette is a center for business, shopping, banking, medical services and recreation activities. It is home to Northern Michigan University, where the US Olympic Education Center stands as a place for promising olympic hopefuls to receive training on several sports. Given its proximity to Lake Superior, its diverse terrain, Marquette is a year-round sporting, outdoors, and recreational hotspot for recreational and serious athletes and families just wanting to get away and have some fun.

Marquette is a picturesque blend of the old and the new. Many of the region and nation’s big names in lumbering, iron ore (mining) and railroad development had residences here. Its historic district is well-preserved and the homes of some of the past developers remain. This place is a walker (and bicyclist’s) delight. If you visit the area, head for Arch & Ridge streets to see the stately homes, churches, and public buildings. According to Margaret Beattie Bogue, most of these structures were built in the “last three decades of the nineteenth century during the heyday of iron mining in the Marquette range.”

One of my favorite spot was the Marquette County Courthouse off Third Street near west Washington Street. This is a great old building still in use and open to the public. I hung around outside it. It is probably most famous as the setting for the Hollywood movie, starring Jimmy Stewart and Lee Remick, Anatomy of a Murder, based on the fictionalized account of a true incident that transpired in Big Bay, a town to the northwest of Marquette. The author of the novel was Robert Traver, who in real life was attorney and county prosecutor, John Voelker (now deceased).

Stopped by Book World Bookstore, formerly the Nordic Theater where the hand and footprints of Stewart and Remick could be seen. They’ve been removed to undergo repair after suffering water damage. Book World is a great bookstore and I managed to leave it with buying only one book, which doesn’t even count since it was on the region. This reminds me…does the GPS include bookstores?? Hmmm….The downtown area is a wonderful space that all the travel books proudly note has managed to resist over “malling” to preserve the unique history and charm of this area. In fact, some of these old structures have been transformed into unique grouping of stores where local artists display and sell their art.

I toured the Marquette Maritime Museum, where a retired volunteer with an IL connection (he used to live in Joliet) gave a passionate, detailed history of lighthouse, ships (and wrecks) and many suggestions on where to tour next. The lighthouse is now federal property, under the jurisdiction of the US Coast Guard and they let are unequivocal in letting you know it. Come on their property without permission and get ready for a serious strip searching and surrendering of your firstborn! They are not playing around. They now license the museum to give the tours and require participats to wear the blue badges handed out after you pay your fee—a new feature that our guide says he has to “remember” to collect at the end of each tour. You’ll be glad to know that if Elvis is out there in the water somewhere, the US Coast Guard is there, ready for the rescue.

Presque Isle Park is highly recommended. The park is perched on the northern edge of Marquette. The scenic drive out there follows the narrow Lakeshore Drive and is worth the slow speeds posted to get there. It is a public park that has everything: fabulous views, cliffs, hiking, biking, driving trails and pebble beaches. Bogue describes it as a “beautiful 323-acre forested peninsula.” In a word, it is breathtaking and highly endorsed by seemingly everyone around here.

I rode the narrow, winding path through the park and the only problem I have about such places is they often lack a decent shoulder for pulling off for a street motorcycle. This one definitely had places to park and many lookout points but these were often sandy and pebbly, making them a little challenging for my gal-pal—and we’ve got proof, which I don’t’ want to talk about! A keen eye on one of the pics might spot the proof, which is why I’ll always remember Presque Park for more than it beauty. I have no pics of the park itself, but when I pick up Marquette again at the end of my circle, I plan to hike or rent a bicycle to explore this area and give it its proper due. The cliffs looked inviting and to lunch near the Marquette Marine Harbor, while looking out on all the blue that is Lake Superior, would be a nice way to close the office start/end of the tour.

Yes, the extra day in Marquette was just the respite Queenie and I needed. We’re off to Canada today---but oh, so many stops before we get there.

Note to self: Beware the sand and wildlife!

Upper Peninsula--Finally!

Didn’t leave IL until Sunday—more than 24 hours later than planned! If I told you all the details that transpired that day, you wouldn’t believe it. At some point, I’ll write about the tale fully but for now, I’ll spare you the Academy Award winning drama and give you the highlights. (Sorry for the funky formatting--I'm experiencing some connection challenges).

Prepared to leave Saturday, August 4, 8:00 a.m.
Bike is packed. Queenie fires up and I make it, oh, about 100 ft.
Queenie sputters as if she has Whooping Cough. Recent check up=100% A-Okay.
She’s probably out of gas—I was on my way to fill up.
I cab it to the station #1. No gas container.
Station #2 has everything I need.
I add gas. Bike still sputters and coughs. Hmmm?
Bike will start but sputters and dies out when I open the throttle.
Shop sends someone to tow the bike.
I wait over 5 hours.

Two city tow trucks circle me. I’m parked in a tow zone. (Hum Steve
Goodman’s classic song, "Lincoln Park Pirates" about the towing
biz in Chicago).
Shop driver, a great guy, had car accident on his way to retrieve me.
Shop seems to come to a stop to attend to Queenie.
Shop owner offers me his BMW R1100R to ride around Lake Superior—he is serious and pulls out the bike to prepare it.

My mechanic uses his hands like a vacuum to suck and/or choke off
something and Queenie sounds like her throat is clear. All things check out.
Queenie is test-driven and passes with flying colors. She sounds great!
Debate ensues on whether I should go in a day or two.
I side with the test rider and plan for a Sunday departure.
Leave the shop after closing time. I love those guys!
Arrive home 6:00 p.m. Exhausted. Realize I’ve missed breakfast, lunch and
too exhausted to eat dinner now. I nap instead.

Sunday, August 5:

Awake at 4a.m. It is raining and Bob Dylan’s "A Hard Rain’s
Gonna Fall" pops into my brain.
I have pasta for breakfast and want to get moving ASAP.
I repack and reduce my load by one whole bag!
The weather has tuned stormy.
Four hours later, I hum Dylan again.
Hook or crook, I’m leaving as soon as possible
Rain predicted in parts of WI and MI.
11:30 a.m. the sky has brightened a little.
12:30, I am on the road.
Choke on, Queenie sputters. Open the throttle, she belches and coughs--a little.
She idles. Her throat seems to gradually clear.
I vow to ride for an hour to check things out.
I figure I need to run through the bad gas before it’s entirely out of her system.
I encounter gray skies and light rain throughout parts of IL and WI.
Queenie performs beautifully.

Green Bay, WI feels 20 degrees colder than in IL.
I stop every 90 minutes to stretch and drink—I even remember to have lunch.
Crossing into MI, it looks like I’ve avoided the rain in Menominee, MI.
I travel territory I covered on the Lake Michigan Circle Tour. I’m excited.
I can reach Marquette, MI, faster if I stay on US 41.
I take the more scenic M-35 and travel along the big waters of Green Bay.
In Escanaba, it’s like visiting an old friend met on the Lake Michigan Circle Tour.
It is getting dark and cold. Marquette is 67 miles away.
Next 17 miles are uneventful..
Pick up US 41 again near Rapid River.
Things get interesting.

The next 50 miles provide more adventure than I want—at a time when my
energy level is beginning to wane.
I motor along US 41 underneath a canopy of trees and dense forest.
It starts to get really cold, dark, and foggy.
The area is surrounded by rivers.
The misting is heavy.
Many cars are heading in the opposite direction but only the faint red light of
a car ahead of me.
A deer, my first sighting, darts into view. My heart leaps into my throat.
Through the mist and fog, I scan for deer and pray I don’t see any.
Prayers not answered.
Many alive and dead deer along the route. I am in full alert.
Every thing now looks like a deer—mailboxes, tree stumps, tree barks…
After a few miles, the mist and fog clears. The cold remains.
More deer sightings have spooked me. My bladder begs for release.
No place to pull off the road.
A sign warns that an upcoming bridge may be slippery when icy or wet.
I cross the bridge hoping it doesn’t collapse.
Signs for Marquette, trigger the adrenaline flow.

My hotel is across the street from Lake Superior.
I pull into the lot and shortly sink into sand! Good thing I was going slowly!
It is 9:50pm. I have been on the road over nine hours.
I settle in but am famished.
Hunger leads me out again to find the “Big Boy” the clerk claims is open.
It is not.

I head back. The hilly, curvy road is near black.
Over a hill, I am met with a deer—what is it doing out this late?
Its eyes look like two huge shiny gold pieces. We spook each other.
It freezes.
I swerve to the extreme left—not a deliberate, planned response—
but sheer panic! I remind myself that this trip will have many wildlife sightings like this!
The next two minutes are—thankfully—calm.

Safely inside my room, I have graham crackers and water for dinner.
I read to calm down.

I awake at 5am.
From my window, I see a magnificent purple-red sky over Lake Superior.

It is the dawning of a new day.

Sunday ride total: 390 miles

Route (sort of...) Mileage differences due to slightly different route and avoiding tolls.

No pictures yet.

Cleaner than the Board of Health!

Took Queenie in for a safety check before the big trip. While there, I saw a red, and I mean RED, 2004 BMW R1150R.

The owner, a collector, accessorized the bike in unique ways and in doing so he used only high quality, expensive parts for the modifications. I could tell by looking at it, that he left no stone unturned--even those ordinarily ugly plastic oil containers have been transformed into art. He's clearly given attention to every detail of the bike. To make his vision for the bike real, he had to import some of the bike's farkles and the result is a bike that looks more European BMW than American BMW. It is meticulous and unblemished. And, this is a bike that has been ridden. I think it had 14,000 miles on it. The lines of the lower fairing are one of a kind. Down to the screws, the bike is extraordinary. It looks brand new. His asking price is, well, pricey, and clearly aimed at recoup some of his investment in this work of sheer beauty. I hear, however, that he's building a new house and unloading some of his garage holdings. Hmmm... I wonder how far south he's willing to go on the price 'cause I'm willing to take this off his hands.

No ST ride, No Sleep, and No skates

Well, I didn’t get to ride the BMW R1200ST. The man who promised to buy it finally showed up and took it off the dealer’s hands. Boo-hoo! I met a woman at the BMW Rally who generously offered me a ride on hers. I just might take her up on that. I hate that BMW discontinued the bike. Wonder what’s in store to replace it?

The insomnia has started. I’ve strange sleeping habits to start with, so it doesn’t take much for sleeplessness to kick in. I’m already walking around zombie-like because I can’t settle down to sleep longer than a few hours at a time. As I’ve said before, I see this as part of the trip process for me. I’m preoccupied with thoughts about all the things I need to complete before I leave, the excitement of leaving, you name it.

No inline skates on the trip. More Boo-hooing. I will miss many scenic opportunities to skate in regions near Lake Superior. Riding a motorcycle isn’t the most aerobic outlet. Thus, skating would have ensured some heart-pumping activity on the trip. But alas,…they take up more space than I can spare. I’ll have to settle for taking a jump rope to launch each day and my hiking boots to explore Canada’s plentiful provincial parks.

I have three hours before heading off to work. I’m going to try again to get some shut-eye…

Circling Lake Superior--the countdown begins...

In eight days, I will leave for my second Great Lakes trip, 1500 miles around Lake Superior, not counting how long it will take me to get from Chicago to my official starting point, Marquette, MI. According to William Murphy, in Motorcycling Across Michigan, Lake Superior is the "crown jewel" of the Circle Tours. I trust Murphy's take on things as his depiction of the Lake Michigan Circle Tour was spot-on and indispensable to my magnificent journey last summer. Murphy transcends the basics by proffering little known aspects of the history and herstory of the area, by demystifying the local topography and by revealing the best motorcycle roads--all the information one expects from reading a great travel guide. I will not leave home without him.

While Murphy and other travel books usually cover the joys of travel, they rarely cover the angst and fears about travel, particularly solo travel. But some fear is healthy and we should talk about it. Within reason, I follow the "feel the fear and do it anyway" philosophy. I ride solo. I am female. I am black. Alone, anyone of those attributes can challenge the human spirit on any given day. Together, they always make for an interesting trip, especially in places where folks get their education about people who look like me from watching television, for example, "The Bill Cosby Show," "Law and Order" or late night comedy with Chris Rock. For the most part, folks are fine once they get over their initial shock and their "where did you come from" queries. I don't seek out the bad, but I must always prepare myself mentally for the dolts who will surely fling a few nasty epithets my way before I return home. As long as no one touches me, I ignore the ill-informed among us. And let it be known: I never travel entirely alone--if you know what I mean. I accept now that my anxieties are a way of getting me in shape, a way of preparing me for the road ahead and all the experiences it will engender.

To some some family members I should stay home, where it is safe. "Why," they ask, "put yourself in the line of fire?" "People are crazy," they remind me. Yet, staying at home is no panacea. To me, that's not living. In some ways, going out and about alone has saved me from an acute weariness about humankind that too often gets beneath my skin. Traveling near and far has reminded me that a lot of good remains. All I can do is promise to be careful and trust my intuition. I will expect the best but prepare for the worst. In the coming days, I presume that my bizarre, pre-trip night terrors will be ignited. This is one place where I don't listen to my gut. If I did, it would signal, no, it would scream: "Stay home!" In reality, I know this is only the subliminal work of my inner mind signaling me in its weird way to "Proceed with Caution," to "Be careful out there." At least this is what I tell myself.

So, I'll accept the inevitable night visions as par for the course. I'll treat the messages embedded there as cautionary tales reminding me to "ride smart, ride safe. And to boot, I'll toss a hammer in my luggage just in case I need to whack any ornery characters.

I have more than a few rituals I perform before a big trip, such as gearing up from head to toe, packing and unpacking and taking practice trips on the fully loaded bike. This prepares me for the ride in every way. Another ritual is the need for a new journal to capture my brain dumps. I buy journals of all kinds, probably as frequently as folks buy their favorite staple. Mine range from the cheap to the occasional expensive. Some I collect and never write in; others, I write in with no hesitation. Rare is the day, I don't journal. My current favorite is the little black classic Moleskine that writers and artists have loved for hundreds of years. Recently I found a cute spiral-bound journal for motorcycle riders. It arrived a day ago and although it lacks blank pages for writing long, stream of conscious thoughts, it's a keeper for anyone who wants to record the basics: mileage, motorcycle performance, restaurants, sites, accommodations and interesting people met along the way. I'll make room for it in my luggage. However, my ritual of penning a few morning pages before riding, will go into a journal I've had in my collection for years. For reasons I don't fully comprehend, I am only now ready to write on its wonderfully textured pages. I can almost hear the lake's call...

F800ST--addendum

I've had a couple of private emails regarding the seat height of the F800ST. It would have been so simply to link to the BMW website! You readers know that I typically over link--I simply forgot. Blame it on brain cells that refuse to fire up fully when they know they should be sleeping. So, here is BMW website . On it is everything you'll ever want to know about Beemers, Beemer accessories, Beemer testemonials, great Beemer pictures--you get the point.

The F800ST seat height, by the way, is 32.9 inches; however, you can order it in the low seat version that will take it to an amazing 31.1 inches. My understanding is that it can be raised a tad also with aftermarket seating options. The dry weight is 412lbs, with fluids, it is approximately 461lbs.

Try Googling, you'll find that the bike has been reviewed by almost every magazine and everyone except my 90 year old grandmother! Here's what the AMA had to say about it. Also check out Road Runner Motorcycle Touring and Travel magazine's (my favorite!) August '07 issue.

While you are at the site, register to win a "K" bike!

The BMW F800ST--Ride Review

The “F” in F800ST should stand for “Fun,” which is exactly my experience with the bike yesterday morning when I road tested one. I arrived early at Chicago BMW, hoping to beat any chance of the bike being checked out as a loaner for a service work agreement. I had planned also to test ride the one R1200ST in the shop but it was spit-shined and waiting to be retrieved by someone who had promised to purchase it that day. Sigh…I could only gaze at it a lot. I did get a detailed review of the bike from Ken at Chicago BMW. Thanks!!

I spoke with General Manager, Mike Abt and deeply appreciate the time he spent with me. He was patient, attentive and listened to my ramblings about what I needed and wanted, which really are two different things. Mike could give lessons to other salespersons, some of whom slight women buyers and worst, fail to listen to them when they explain their needs—don’t even get me started!

After taking the requisite driver’s license info and signing the waiver to eliminate any liability on BMW’s part, Mike rolled out the "gun-metal" F800ST to the side entrance with me at his heels trying to look calm as if I do this sort of thing everyday (inside I was downright giddy!). Mike gave me a mini intro on the bike’s functions and button locations. Immediately, I liked the instrument panel. It packs all the info one wants, some of which I currently lack, such as gear indicator and fuel gauge. The F800ST is liquid cooled and fuel injection so there is no need to fiddle with a choke. Yet, the bike, according to Mike, still requires a “couple of minutes” to warm up. On the coldest days, my choke only demands counting from 1-Mississippi to 30-Mississippi to awaken the engine. I know the pros and cons of EFI and carbureted bikes and air and liquid cools engines. It's all about tradeoff.

A little twist of the F800ST key fired the engine, and it purred instantly.

The turn signals are extending tabs on the F800ST, perfectly located at thumb’s reach on the right and left side slightly below the handlebar grip. The turn signal cancellation button is directly above the right turn signal. This placement seemed intuitive and never gave me pause! The cancellation button, however, did give me fits a few times, as I repeatedly and inadvertently opened the throttle while attempting to reach up for the cancellation button. This mistake gave me a chance to experience the F800ST’s responsiveness. It’s quick but still tamer than Queenie, who behaves more rocket-like at the start, whereas, the F800ST exhibited such responsiveness most in the higher gears? I may be explaining this all wrong. I’m trying to capture the feeling I got.

The kill switch is a little red lever that pokes out above an alternate ignition switch. A no-frills instrument panel is easy to read and fun to refer to for information. I have, on more occasions than I care to admit, forgotten what gear I’m in and have tried to shift to 6th only to discover I’m already in 6th . I’ve also downshifted and miscalculated the bottom gear. Fortunately, I’ve outgrown this newbie habit—well, for the most part. Still, knowing what gear I’m in, having my tire pressure and fuel monitored is not a luxury. It might be good stats to compare the bike’s tire pressure with my digital tire pressure gauge. For similar reasons, I’ve been fascinated at my record keeping of how my bike’s odometer varies from the GPS reading.

Before mounting the bike, an observant BMW worker placed huge strips of blue tape along the lower tank of the bike to preclude scratches from the metal of my jacket zipper. Several spectators were hanging around the garage waiting and inside the shop I saw other (men) watching the instructions I was being given on the bike. Now, I’m certain they were watching the bike. Still, this made me a tad self-conscious in that I’m always feeling that I don’t have the freedom to make mistakes around men, particularly men I don’t know. I don’t know why I even care. I assume that they are waiting for me to make an error, do something stupid and attribute that to gender. This is probably TMI but it’s how I feel. I do a lot of self-talking to let this kind of stuff go. I feel similarly about race too. Oh, the crosses I bear!

I mount the bike and my goal is a smooth take off without bucking or killing the engine. Mike gives me some suggestions of where to ride and states, “Take your time.” I wiggle onto the seat. I am not flat-footed but three-quarters is enough to feel confident. The bike feels narrow and my knees hug the tank with a familiarity that makes me feel as one with the bike. I slowly ease out the clutch and feel for the friction zone. I find it and pull slowly to the stop sign. I feel eyes on me. As I wait for the road to clear, I glance toward the showroom and see about three males watching. I wiggle the bike side to side. It feels light. When I see a respite in the busy Western Avenue traffic, I visualize the sharp right turn, pull easily out and I’m off.

At the next light, I make a right turn onto Pratt. The bike feels amazingly agile even though a fairing surrounds me. I deliberately left out the earplugs, as I wanted to hear the parallel twin engine and compare it to the pleasing sound of my V-twin. The F800ST has a distinct sound and seemed slightly louder, but perhaps it wasn’t louder--just different. I did hear a clear “clunk” sound when shifting gears, particularly downshifting. Yet, gearing was smooth and precise, taking far less foot pressure than my SV. The bike accelerated unexpectedly several times but that’s my fault from trying to reach the turn signal cancellation button while maintaining a steady throttle. Once I became cognizant of my hand movement, I was more precise and that solved the surprise accelerations. Speaking of acceleration, I noticed that the throttle was not as sensitive as my SV. I’m not sure how to explain this well. With just a bit more flex of the wrist than necessary, my gal-pal bike will take flight! The F800ST appeared not to be as sensitive--at least in the lower gears. However, I felt its responsiveness in fourth and fifth gear. I think this might be what people mean about low end versus midrange or high-end torque—but I don’t know for sure. I just know how it felt.

Turning the F800ST is a breeze. How a bike that weights nearly 50 lbs more than mine can feel at least that much lighter, is beyond me! But it did. Perhaps the location of the gas tank accounts for some of this. On the F800ST, the gas tank is behind the rider seat, which is huge plus for me! I detest wasting time tampering with my tank bag to get at the gas tank. Imagined the minutes saved on a timed ride if you never had to tinker with the tank bag. Locating it behind the seat is an idea I love.

Leaning the F800ST is easy fun. Getting onto Kedzie Avenue required a nice wide turn, which I take in third gear and the bike leans with ease. One moment of puzzlement occurred when I looked down at the bike’s front and witnessed that the fairing doesn’t move (Duh). Of course, the front wheel moves but it is encompassed by the fairing, preventing me from watching the tire's movement. (Yeah, I know I'm not supposed to be looking there, but I'm test riding, so I'm excused this time). In my peripheral vision, on my bike, I can see my front wheel turn. When I stole a glance at the F800ST and watched the fairing remain straight when I pressed on the handlebars, it was a strange sensation. I wondered why the bike didn’t seem to be moving in the direction of the turn. The wheel was simply harder to see. It reminded me of my transition from a VW beetle (a hundred years ago) to a VW Sirocco. In that first car, I could see the ground beyond the car’s hood, which I couldn’t in the second car. Looking through the Sirocco’s windshield only allowed me to see its hood! It took some getting used to before I fully trusted that the wheels were responding to my turn directions. It took a few turns to ignore the fairing and once I did, I sat back and let the bike do its job, which it did beautifully. Finally, I made a deliberate quick-stop to see if the ABS would kick in; unfortunately, I can’t say I noticed since I’ve never ridden an ABS bike. Nonetheless, the F800ST definitively and smoothly executed an exclamation point stop.

The Beemer took about two minutes to feel comfortable on. I felt on intimate ground with the bike--almost instantly. While riding I continued to think of my SV. The F800ST feels like its tamer sibling. It is a fun, flickable bike thanks to a slim, narrow frame that made me want to hug it. Does it have the SV fun factor? I’d need to put on far more miles on it to answerr that but I will say it’s not a bike easily dismissed. I tried to imagine the bike after 300 miles of riding and I smiled at the thought.

The distance from my knees to my feet on the pegs felt right—a tad roomier and perhaps bent back a bit more than my SV. The seating position was back-friendly and I liked the handlebars, which are wide like the SV. The windscreen was tall enough to provide protection on the open road. Tucking low and leaning forward, if necessary, on the ample tank will be comfortable on those breezy head wind days.

Well, I’ve rambled on long enough to say, there are many things I like about the F800ST and a lot of things I loved. Is it the bike for me? I don’t know. I did get a little “Wow” out of the ride. That it has ways similar to my SV gives me reason to pause before fully embracing it as my next bike. Do I need more of a challenge when I move up? Or is staying almost where I am but having a few more toys at my finger tips sufficient? I could live with it as my next bike if I decided to. But what is it I really want?

I am struggling with wrapping my brain around owning any bike over a certain cc. Perhaps I shouldn’t focus so much energy on displacement. I can’t help it, though. I’m not convinced that I need anything over 650cc; thus, even an 800cc will be a stretch-even if just mental. Nor am I convinced that I need major bhp. More than 20 years ago, when I first learned to ride on a Honda CB360—before specialization—people rode smaller displacement bikes that had no problem taking them where they wanted to go.

As I go through the process of deciding what to purchase, I am reminded of Robert Pirsig, in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Pirsig’s long trip with his young son as a passenger was on a 1964 Honda Superhawk CB77—a 350cc motorcycle! Ernesto “Che” Guevara’s legendary adventure (with a passenger) from Argentina to North America, was launched on a 1939, 500cc Norton.
I’m looking forward to riding more bikes. The more I research and test ride, the more I’ll learn what I will or will not live without on a motorcycle. No matter what I purchase, the choice will be a tradeoff and I’ll live with those limitations. Happily, I hope. This time next season, this will all be a memory.