Frank Lloyd Wright ride...

Recently, the weight of work and travel have reduced my riding to local environs. On one rare Sunday free, I refueled my fascination with Frank Lloyd Wright (FLW). I'm lucky that so much of his amazing, progressive architectural genius is concentrated a stone's throw from me in Oak Park. Not since my early summer trip to Spring Green, WI, where I toured Taliesan, have I scratched my Frank Lloyd Wright itch.

So on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, temperature around the mid 80s (F) and Queenie screaming to be ridden, I headed out to the western suburb, where Wright launched his practice and created his signature "Prairie Style" of architecture. Oak Park-River Forest area must have one of, if not the largest collection of Wright structures.

First stop, the Frank Lloyd Wright Home & Studio, 951 Chicago Avenue, Oak Park, IL. Inside, one can find everything FLW related. The photography books are attractive and expensive. But there is a wealth of small items that will satisfy every visitor. From there, one can take a guide tour or tour solo guide. I decided on a self-guided tour and after purchasing a $4.00 map, I felt ready to hit the streets. I parked the bike and walked to homes along Chicago Avenue--a major FLW architectural street. When necessary, I doubled back and used the 'cycle to get to streets like Forest, Home, and Euclid. Tour along any of these streets and observe not only FLW's genius, but also the works of William Drummond, Tallmadge & Watson, George W. Maher, E.E. Roberts, to mention a few.

Oak Park has some great restaurants. One of my favorite is a little place called New Pot that serves the best, freshest Thai food around. I usually get a lightly fried Thai rice with shrimp. Unlike some places, they devein the shrimp and cook to perfection. I was too famished to take a picture of the food, but trust me, it's great, mountainous and cheap! I always order tofu pad Thai to go for the next day's meal.

I continue to be amazed with FLW's life and creations, even though the story of the man's personal life challenges me on many levels (his relationship with his wife, other women, and his children). No one can dispute Wright's genius. He was ahead of his time and like many brilliant, gifted minds, Wright often found himself at odds with conventions and norms. The world of architecture benefited from this, and some would contend that his personal life suffered for the same reasons. But who among us is without flaws?

Why I did not take photos--not even one of Queenie parked in front of a FLW house, is beyond me. I think I was in a "zone" the whole time and didn't give it a thought until much later. Oh well...I returned home humbled and full.

As someone who is a distance riding addict, I realize from this trip that one don't always need to travel far to enjoy the ride.

Here is a slideshow of some FLW structures in Oak Park. With the exception of a couple of buildings, most are the works of Frank Lloyd Wright. Enjoy.

Anti-motorcycling chauvinist and/or fool?

(Disclaimer: This is loosely motorcycling related so feel free to skip it and come back for a soon to be posted ride report. This is mostly about an arrogant doctor hell bent on blaming motorcycling for my back problem).

On a recent early morning, I geared up and headed out to a doctor's appointment. Not my regular doctor but someone she referred me to as an "expert." I've had a nagging backache for years and on occasion it flares up. A terrible fall (not motorcycle related) a couple of years ago probably aggravates the condition. I figured it was time to check it out. Thus, the referral made by my internist. Before visiting the "expert," my doctor, whom I've had for about 20 years, tells me that this doctor has a bad reputation for his harsh bedside manners, "old school" ideas, and a brisk demeanor. She warns me that he will not spend time to talk to me but she stresses that he is an excellent orthopedic surgeon.

I've now had four visits with the "expert." Here's my take on him: If my back were separating from my body with visibly deteriorating flesh and fiber, I wouldn't go to this doctor if he were the only one on earth who possessed a cure! I would just have to say my farewells to family and friends and die!

At the first appointment, it was also a gorgeous day and I decided to ride my bike then too. I arrived in plenty of time to relax and remove all my gear for what I thought was going to be a thorough physical. I waited. And I waited. In that waiting period, I learned things I didn't like. I could hear him talking to patients from down the hall. He raised his voice a lot and I for one interpret this as yelling. His tone was dictatorial. He seemed to be multi-tasking up the wahzoo, almost as if he was holding simultaneous patient exams. I later learned that often he kept the door open during exams. At times, the place seemed chaotic. The waiting room seemed dull and signs of "No food, drink or cellphones" adorned the walls. Hunting, fishing, women, parenting, and celebrity magazines were amply spread around the room. In addition, the scent of a czarist regime filled the air.

I signed in and handed over the the images of my lower back. I was given the necessary papers to complete. I refused to fill out those invasive homeland security forms, which is within my rights. Promptly, I was told that "all" patients "must" fill them out. I pointed out the place on the forms that clearly state I have a right not to sign, which gives them the authority to release medical info requested about you--and not just to the feds. Now, I'm not naive, I know that when push comes to shove, anything and everything is fair game and will, if necessary, be released to the government. But I'm not going to make it easy for them.

The doctor hears this exchange and butts in and wants to know what is the problem. His help tells on me and he looks at me and wants to know what is the matter. I tell him, "No problem, I choose not to sign the medical release form." Mind you this does not preclude the doctor from releasing medical information to my doctor or to anyone else I designate. He says, "You have to sign the form for treatment." I nicely correct him and point out that the form is voluntary as stated in the instructions and that I cannot be denied treatment for not signing. Thus begins my introduction to the "expert." Let me add, that I am a polite person. I will, however stand up for my rights.

I wait in the examining room. His male nurse takes my history. He asks about the physical activities I now and in the past have engaged in. I tell him I lift weights but nothing too heavy; I do Tai chi; I power walk, inline skate, and am a former serious long distance runner; I bicycle ride when I can. The nurse adds, "and you ride a motorcycle." Yes, I forgot that.

The "expert" enters. The first words out of his mouth..."Did anyone ever tell you that riding a motorcycle is bad for your back?" He motions to my helmet. His tone is not friendly. I say, "No." He continues that the back problem I'm complaining about probably stems for all the jarring from riding a MC. I decide against telling him about all the physicians I know who ride. He reads my history. Then he remarks, "For a woman your age (I'm fifty-something) you're doing too much." I am dumbfounded. Not that I need his approval, but isn't it a good thing to stay in shape or at least strive for fitness?

He tells me that while I look young, the body knows how old I am. And suddenly, I'm feeling the need to bolt out of his mad house. He's surprised at my age and he states that he realizes baby boomers push themselves to the limit. When he finishes I say, "It's interesting you mention the motorcycle being bad for one's back, I had back problems for about five or more years, this is only my second season of riding. I explain how riding has not made the problem any better or worse. In fact, I tell him I think my back has improved because I now do more strengthening exercises because of long distance riding. He discounts my personal observations. I explain that I don't ride during the winter and my back soreness still plagues me. I tell him the back problem preceded riding by years only he isn't listening to me. He cuts me off several times, gets defensive and claims that he is accustomed to people like me not wanting to hear the truth. To him, I seem like a stubborn woman who doesn't act her age--whatever that means. I guess I'm supposed to shut up, dry up, and die!

His examination is cursory. That's fine as I want to leave anyway. He ends our first meeting with his "expert" opinion and orders more tests. He tells me, "You present yourself to me complaining about a back pain but you ride a motorcycle. You do Tae Kwon do... (I cut him off and say "I do tai chi." One hundred year old Chinese folks do tai chi to stay limber and mentally fit. I would need to remind him often at subsequent appointments that the two are vastly different, but he is deaf to the details). You run (I correct that too). You do all this martial arts stuff...(what the heck is he talking about?). For a woman your age... (now I'm getting really ticked, not only is he at least 25 years older than me, I am about to strike him) the back pain is probably due to this heavy activity level you follow," blah, blah, blah. I leave feeling I'd been in the presence of educated swine. I was hoping for an objective diagnosis, to know that I don't have some horrible back cancer or some freaky, rare muscular-skeletal disorder. Instead, I get an undisguised chauvinist who gives his "expert" opinion without waiting for the test results.

Before leaving, I had another exchange with his desk help when I asked for the film back. Before the woman could retrieve it, the doctor yelled that he had to keep the film (fair enough). I asked if I could get it at the end of my last visit. He interrupted and said, "No treatment without the film." That wasn't my question, but I decided to drop it before I used my helmet as a deadly weapon.

As I was leaving, he yells down the hall at me in a friendly tone, "Hey, are you going to give me a ride on your motorcycle?" Stunned, I turn and in my most nice-nasty voice say, "NO!" And just before I close the door, I add, "You don't have a helmet!" From that first visit, I learn that he's of a generation where doctors were considered God by many people and clearly he mourns the change. He allows no meaningful dialogue. His office operates with a harem, a bunch of females (one male) who seem to levitate in his presence, thus reinforcing his God-complex.

My next three appointments were challenging and gives me one more good reason for not owning a handgun. I ride to each appointment and it always gives him a reason for commenting on the evils of the physical demands of motorcycling. Now, there may be some truth to his claims but he didn't show me any. I guess I was supposed to treat his word as gospel.

At each visit, he ordered more tests. I spent much of our time trying to ask questions and get him to listen to me to no avail. He made comments each time about motorcycling, proving his ignorance. Once he picked up my book I had been reading while waiting for him. He eyed the title and did a huffy-grunt and said, "Any good?" In hindsight, I wished I had been reading something with a more provocative title, like an issue of SCUM (The Society for Cutting up Men)--which was a radical anti-male group of women in the 70s--just to get his goat.

At my most recent--and last appointment with this "expert", I left for the appointment in morning temps that were in the high 40s but the weather promised a welcomed warm up by afternoon. I donned my Kilimanjaro jacket with the zip in fleece lining. I had also remembered to put in my helmet chin curtain, which prevents the air from blowing around the front neck area of the helmet. At highway speeds in excess of 60 mph, I could feel the cold and wind against my arms and slightly against my chest; but, I remained toasty the whole ride. It was refreshing being out in that crisp morning air. I took the long way and arrived at his office by 9am. The forty-plus miles put me in a giddy mood.

I knew this office visit would be my last. With or without his "diagnosis. After waiting too long in the waiting room, I was moved to the examining room, with the door open. I sat listening to him examine an talk to other patients, knowing that when he came to examine me, they would be listening. He looked at my chart and bounced his head up and down. He says, "You're doing too much and I've ruled out any bone, structural, nerve and arthritic conditions. So you've got to make a decision. In my professional view, from a legal standpoint, I've got to say, I don't see anything wrong from the tests I've requested. Now, does that mean you making this up? I don't think so. But you're doing a lot of things." He stressed that he would be happy to do more tests on my neck, which appears, at least to me, related to the back. He thinks they are "entirely" unrelated, however. Perhaps. But he was now "willing" to turn to the neck (something he was unwilling to even consider before) and wants me to schedule another appointment. "Thanks, but no thanks." I think, "You've seen the last of me, buddy."

When the staff tries to schedule another appointment. I told them I'll call them. And, when I request all my medical records, it leads to a discussion about reproduction cost, which I tell them, "Fine, just have the records ready at the agreed time and I will pay for the cost." They want to belabor their fees and go on and on. I continue to say, "Fine. I'll pay for it--do you want me to pay for it now?" They finally back off.

After leaving, I went to my Internist's office. Her nurse, after hearing a little about my experience, confirmed that the "expert" is a "hand full" and she shared with me some humorous and maddening tales of how she has had "words" with him. Later my internist said she has heard these things before about him from other patients. Then she put me in a better mood by telling me this joke: What the difference between God and a Surgeon? Drum roll, please:

Answer: God doesn't think he's a Surgeon.

Ride on...

Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia Bound!

A few weeks, back while staring at a world atlas, I saw how I could do the remaining Great Lakes in two, rather than three seasons. Simply do Lake Erie and Lake Ontario together. These are small enough lakes that together would make a nice trip of around 2500 miles. An atlas is like a dictionary. While searching for what you want, new and unexpected discoveries are often unearthed. That's how I first thought of a trip to Nova Scotia, specifically, Cape Breton Island, where I would ride Cabot Trail.

I could do the southern portions of Erie and Ontario, continue to Maine, take a ferry from there to Nova Scotia--or hook up with the Trans Canada Highway and enter by land, say, via Lake Ontario to Montreal to New Brunswick and south to Nova Scotia. On the return, I'd do the northern portions of the two lakes. A graduation I plan to attend in Vermont in August will be an extra leg to add. In VT, I'll make a major stop in Montpelier, where I hope to meet up with an old teacher. Then I'd trek down southwest to Middlebury for the graduation.

When I checked my most colorful and detailed atlas, I was hooked. I'm going to Cape Breton Island next season! It's amazing how when you start thinking of something, bits of information about that something start trickling in from seemingly everywhere. Soon after this, I ran across a DVD on motorcycling in Nova Scotia. A simple Google search put more information at my finger tips than I could absorb in several sittings. A visit to an online Nova Scotia travel site had tons of information, which I requested immediately.

Then, Friday I was thumbing through a newspaper and learned that Sept. 15-16 Chicago would host their annual Celtic Festival and along with the music, rugby, kilts, Guinness, fish and chips, there would be a Nova Scotia tent. Be still my heart! I thought I might pick up some travel brochures but I collected far more.

By the time I reached Randolph St., I could hear the signature bagpipes and my years of marching with a drum & bugle corps automatically made me step to the rhythm. I found the Nova Scotia booth easily and waited for the first layer of people to move away so I could inch my way forward. I waited on one side but it moved too slowly. I went around to the other side. The friendly ambassadors were enthusiastically giving away spongy red toy lobsters on a stick. At the same time, one could sign up for a prize that included a lobster dinner. I didn't.

Finally, I was able to move to the table, where much of it was covered by a beautiful laminated, highly detailed map of Nova Scotia. I want that map! I would occupy a special place right above my desk, to aid in "keeping my eyes on the prize." I studied the map, which I've now become familiar. I asked the woman about the ferry from Maine. It leaves from Bar Harbor, she told me. She gave me some info and we looked at the map together. I asked about travel alone in Nova Scotia. While she didn't anticipate any problems, she smartly shared a general caveat about safe travel anywhere--no place is 100% safe. However, she stressed that Nova Scotia is exceedingly safe and that I should not encounter problems. In fact, she said, the I will find the friendly citizens caring and helpful, people who will reach out and "probably just take you under their wings." Hearing this conveys great comfort. Her words confirm everything I've learned about the area. If people are half as welcoming as those I met between Sault Ste Marie, Ontario and Thunder Bay, a little bit of heaven awaits me in Nova Scotia.

When I told her I'd be traveling by motorcycle, I definitely saw a sparkle in her eyes. She told me that I'd love the beautiful roads. We chatted a little about the Cabot Trail, which she pointed out on the map. The best, freshest fish awaits me, I'm told. By then, my heart was pounding. I retrieved a travel book from the table that I wouldn't know until I arrived home was, "Motorcycle Tour Guide Nova Scotia"--how great is that?!

Before leaving, I left my name and email address with this amazingly helpful woman, whose name I stupidly did not get. She said she'd pass my info on to their "media" person who might be able to help me put together an "itinerary." I departed with a bag of goodies and a joyful heart.

Usually, I spend the winter months toying around with various trip ideas for the coming season. I'm still open to going to other places but Nova Scotia is calling me. I could do the two lakes as planned--but with a twist. The twist is: a side trip to Cape Breton Island. I did some preliminary mapping and a round trip will be well over 6,000 miles and possibly closer to 8,000 miles given the many legs I'll add to the trip.

My excitement overflows.

Let the planning begin!

Alive and well

This must be the longest period in which I haven't posted. I wish I could say it was due to some great trip I've been on. Alas, it is nothing that interesting. With juggling multiple jobs, working late, shorter daylight, cold 42 degrees F mornings, and a bout of insomnia to boot, I've been suffering from lackoflongriding-itis. One day I came home so afflicted from my disease that I geared up and rode to a grocery store. I took an unnecessarily long route, passing up several perfectly good stores nearby. I squiggled through heavy downtown traffic, dodged the Pac-man cabbies, and pedestrians who obviously believe they have bumpers on their butts the way they absentmindedly step into traffic. The going was slow, bumper-to-bumper traffic and perhaps frustrating to others. But not to me. I enjoyed the total concentration such crazy traffic forces me to wage. I know that motorcycle guru David Hough would frown at my decision to ride in such insane rush hour conditions. Yet I know he'd understand the need to ride; and, he would give high marks for reaching my destination safely.

So, I'm posting a short note to say, "I'm alive and well" and come hell or high water, I will ride this weekend. And, in the future I will select from among the many backup posts that I keep a list of for those lean riding times 'cause I too miss my public moto journal.

Change of topic:

I came across two things recently that I'll mention here. One good, one horrible.
The good: A conference in San Francisco in 2008 has announced a "Call for papers" on motorcycling culture and myth! The possibilities are endless. I am definitely submitting a proposal. And, since DD (darling daughter) goes to school near SF, I can hang out with her as well. Take a look at the conference offerings. I'm open to suggestions on topics to write about.

The horrible: I do understand family and friends who used to go to great lengths to talk me out of riding alone. Like them, I know the dangers and like them, I have a keen sense of the racial history in American society. I am not naive; I have normal fears and more than my share of nightmares the night before a long solo journey. I could let my normal fears get the best of me and stay home. But since I have no evidence that I'll get another chance to live my life, I'm trying to make the best of the one I have. Still, here is what my extended family fear and in the dark lonely hours the night before a trip, such thoughts have visited me too. It is a hateful tale right out of some perverted novel but its true, brought to reality by some truly twisted, evil souls.

Please don't write me to tell me that there is bad on all sides--I've lived long enough to know that to be true. I'm posting this to say this is EXACTLY the kind of thing I hear as evidence against riding alone. I don't get it much anymore--they know I'm going to ride. What I get now is "Don't ride in the south (United States) alone. Although more has come out about this story that will probably preclude it from being considered a "hate crime," that won't matter in the long run. This creates additional fodder for the sick racial history that in overt and covert ways victimizes us all.

I will ride. And, pray that ancestors who have gone before me protect me as they ride at my shoulders and that the roads I travel are littered with the good.

Ride well...

Gallimaufry!

Gallimaufry is a miscellany, a hodgepodge of things and that's what I have today. The list of future blog entries I'd like to post has now become longer than my life expectancy--seriously! So, today's entry is a melange of things, each of which I once felt warranted separate entries, probably doesn't.

Podcast Interview

Just in case you, dear readers, friends and family, have not read enough here and/or had your fill of me blabbing (and who really hasn't?) about my amazing journey around Lake Superior, there is more... Super journalist and photographer Brent Miller of Sojourn Chronicles interviewed me following the trip. I've been remiss in not mentioning it here. So, for those who did not get an email or forum announcement about the podcast, here it is. I've been told Brent did a great job of making me sound interesting. After listening, hang around Miller's site to take in some great writing and beautiful photography.

Iron Butt Rally (IRB)--11,000 miles in 11 days!

These are my people! The 2007 IRB rally ended last week. I followed it daily and absentmindedly didn't even think of going to the start and finish point (Chicago) to get a close look at these long distance riders. Sitting behind my computer screen, I read the daily ride reports and longed to be among them. Drama galore! I was particularly interested in following the solo women riders--who all did extremely well. Visit the site, read the daily reports and check out the final results. The daily reports (way too many final drive failure on the BMW R1200GS bikes??), will keep you reading to the end.

BMW F800ST (My future bike)

The June 2007 issue of Rider magazine names the BMW F800ST as the best sport tourer of 2007! Now, the October issues does another piece on this "Bavarian on a Budget," Beemer. The budget part is a joke given that the base price is $10,475. I guess for serious Beemer buyers that is considered cheap. Still, I've added some of the "must-have" items for this bike and the price leaped over $13,000--not counting taxes and those other things they tack on. I'm guessing I need a good $14,000 for a new one. My test ride on the F800ST was all good!

What worked, what didn't...

A blog on gear and equipment that helped or hindered my recent trip is probably still in the future....Here's the gist: my TourMaster Transition jacket did not work! It kept me comfy; I stayed warm, cool and dry and perhaps that's all one should ask. The color, a silver number with a tightly weave texture, got dirty way too early in the 11 day trip. By day three, I looked tacky. I spent too many evenings in a hotel, trying to clean it. A different color or taking my Kilimanjaro jacket would have be much better. I will not travel with a tripod again. I ended up mailing it back home, along with the camping gear.

I like camping. I don't like camping after 300 miles of riding. By the end of each day, I'd had enough of nature and the elements. By then, I've talked myself silly chatting with friendly natives. By nightfall, I need privacy, clean sheets, a toilet and very hot shower. Despite warnings to the contrary, I traveled again without hotel reservations (I mean, how am I going to know how much I want to ride on a give day?). I've learned it is best to call before 6pm--you will find a place.

Bike drop...

When you ride where sand is omnipresent, you are bound to be caught on precarious ground that requires your absolute attention at all times. But when the scenery is magnificent, your attention can be momentarily distracted, which is enough to create your own personal adventure. Once, I pulled over to take a picture and the transition from the road to the shoulder, which I'd been doing a lot on the big trip, this time was sandier than I expected. The front tired caught the edge of the road and tipped beyond center. I caught it and held on for dear life as it lowered near the ground. I held on, looking around, wondering what's next. I would have had no problem had the bike not been loaded with luggage. When I couldn't hold it any longer, couldn't upright it, I had to gently place it down. Lesson: even lightweight bikes when fully loaded are heavy. And, sand is not your friend when you're on a street bike.

Nolan 102 n-com Helmet

I love this helmet. But it cannot defy gravity! It suffered two major drops on the trip. Each one resulted from my carelessness. Placing it on the seat of the bike while removing luggage will result in a fall. It will happened each time you do this! It looks like a new helmet is in my future as I now question the integrity of this one. A third drop happened soon after I returned home.

Petcock?

I don't have one. I think it's a must on a motorcycle IMHO. Of course, a fuel gauge would be nice too. Don't have that either. Since getting the SV, I've only run out of gas twice. I wouldn't change one moment of my recent lake trip, but running out of gas on a remote section of the Trans Canada Hwy 17, not far from a sign that warns of night dangers below a silhouette of a mammoth moose, really isn't my idea of fun. Why I didn't take my MSR bottles of fuel is beyond me--simple-minded mistake. I love my bike, which is why I'll keep her when I get a second one. But for solo touring, I can't afford such oversights. I truly want something, like that sophisticated instrument panel on the BMW F800ST.

Well, this write up makes a small dent in cleaning off my blog shelf.

Before closing, I'd like to give a "shout out" Happy b-day to Ria B! I'd take you for a birthday ride if you were here!

Scooter Gymkhana and meet-ups--Part I

Saturday was one of those days that you just let go and let happen. In the end, it turned out to be a ton of fun. Some things I believe happen just to test my mettle and see how I'm doing with fret-freeing my life. Letting go of that which I can do nothing about isn't easy but getting more so all the time.

A long weekend loomed and somewhere in it I planned a long trip; unfortunately, not a weekender but at least one significant ride before Tuesday. First, however, I had to retrieve my gal pal. The Priority Lights were being installed--Yay! In addition, the shop was hosting a scooter breakfast and rally/gymkhana. This I had to experience.

I arrived before 11:00. The place was abuzz with activity. Outside the shop, folks and their scooters lined both sides of the street. Tables of food and beverages were set out--all this on an absolutely gorgeous day that reached the low 80s. I didn't sample the food but happy-looking munchers were ubiquitous, creating a high-spirited, jovial atmosphere. I don't know if everyone knew everyone else, but it seemed that way. Later someone said the group consisted of some "scooter club" members. Someone else told me that today was part of a gathering and events that commenced a couple of days prior and more events were planned for the next day or so. I don't know much about scooter culture, but this gathering seemed fun-loving, quirky (in a good way), with a sense of humor expressed in some of the machines. A few motorcycles also lined the streets in front of the shop too--including Queenie.

Met a couple of new people, one I'll remember and one I'd like to forget--in the spirit of "letting go." First, the one I'm working on forgetting: This guy was probably well-intentioned but he rubbed me the wrong way. As I've expressed many times here before, "...like/love my bike and you're A-Okay with me. Bad-mouth my ride and you're on my pooh-pooh list. Forever. So much for letting go...

A guy walks up to my bike looking serious and curious. When he gets up close and personal he asks, "How do you like that bike?" I know this query is meant to be an icebreaker but judging from his body language, his asking bugged me. I mean, it's my bike. Am I going to say, "Oh, I just hate it, bad bike?" For heaven's sake...But I'm detecting this guy doesn't really care how I feel about my bike. Something is pressing on his mind and he longs to share it with me.
I respond, "I love my bike, she's serves me well--she's a great bike." He hikes up one brow while simultaneously, but ever so slightly, leaning his head to the left--like he knows something I don't. When I don't bite, he says..."Yeah, great bike. I loved mine too until it quit on me, just gave out at 50 thou--just gave out--it was really bad." He looks pained but continues..."How many miles you got on it?" I tell him. He said, "Well, just be careful, monitor it when you get close to 50 thou--'cause it can give out..." I stress my happiness with the bike; I say it's in trusted hands at the shop; I tell him of my extensive research and the wealth of knowledge from exceedingly happy SVriders forum members; I tell him I know of others who have put over 100,000 problem-free miles on the bikes, blah, blah, blah. He just furrows his brow again, hunches his shoulders and really doesn't seem that interested in what I'm saying. Inside I'm thinking, "Get on your scooter and buzz off Bud." One day someone is going to get an earful of my inner thinking.

Statis

I also met motorcyclist, Larry, who walked up to me and said, "Hi, may I ask you a question...what do you do with your hair when you're riding?" Although this is Larry's first time asking me this...if I had a nickel every time I'm asked that--well, you know the rest... I give my standard retort: "It depends... blah, blah.... Larry rides a Beemer, a "K-bike" that reminds me of tie-dye. The blue and white colors convey an overall impression of blending together in a distinct pattern you won't soon forget. Larry's "K-bike" is well-ridden; in fact, Larry has his share of long trips. We talked a bit about his Alaska trip, which not only sounded like a ton of fun, but he did it solo. Two thumbs up! Later when I sent Larry a link to this blog, he sent me photos of his two Beemers. I wished I had asked permission to post them here--they are fine looking bikes, worthy of showing off. Nice chatting with Larry, who has his own stories of what it is like riding with long hair.

Scooter Gymkhana


In case you aren't familiar with the term, gymkhana is believed to have originated in the Indian Subcontinent and other parts of Asia. According to Wikipedia, gymkhana "forms the core of a social and sporting club" in some Asian countries. Later, gymkhana came to represent competitive equestrian events in English speaking countries. Now, Gymkhana is often associated with any fun-sporting events with a rally and/or obstacle course activity. It can and often is competitive. Saturday's gymkhana, although competitive, was heaviest on the fun part.

The gymkhana was a hoot! I overhead someone jokingly remark that "whoever thought of this course had to have a strange sense of humor." Scooters maneuvered along an obstacle course that demonstrated their scooter skills, such as riding with one hand while trying to insert a flagpole--with flag on it--through one of several small openings in a wooden ladder-type structure. The traditional cone weave was replaced with cans of soda, which made for interesting squirt patterns and fizzing sounds when a can was inadvertently run over.

The course also tested rider tolerance. Near the end of the course, riders navigated their scooters inside two narrowly placed parallel sticks. While doing so, they were pelted with small blue and green sopping wet sponges and an occasional bucket of water. One could either see the water works as a refreshing way to end the course or a rite of passage. Perhaps, it was a bit of both.

Some cyclists took the ending ritual in stride, buzzing through the water station as quickly as possible, head tucked and protected by helmet and the occasional jacket. Some yelled back and questioned the sanity of the water-happy throwers. A few less intrepid riders cleverly averted the full force of the throwers by making a wide left detour, which only resulted in them getting slightly less wet and missing only some of the sponge pelting. I hope it was as much fun for the participants as it was for the onlookers.

All this made me think about owning a scooter. But then, I think the fun of this gathering was the camaraderie shared among each other. Ok, so maybe this isn't my kind of thing but I wonder if solo scooter riding is the same as solo motorcycle riding? Well, perhaps I'll save the scooter riding until I'm too old to throw a leg over a 31 inches seat height bike. But if I do ever own a scooter, I want it purple with fringes hanging from the ends of the handlebar on with a sidecar to carry Bessie, the Jack Russell terrier I'm going to own one day, and a 650cc displacement so I can still travel near and far.

Part II--Queenie blows a fuse... (to be continued)

The road to AEROSTICH

Visiting Aerostich RIDERwearhouse in Duluth, MN was one of the highlights of my recent Lake Superior trip. If you've been riding a motorcycle and surfing the 'net for motorcycle related gear and accessories, you've undoubtedly run across the name Aerostich. Think of any item related to riding, particularly long distance and adventure riding and the folks at Aerostich have thought of your needs. And if you look through their mammoth catalog, you can find it.

Once while riding in a heavy rainstorm, I wondered why no one had thought of a windshield wiper for helmets. I didn't find what I was looking for, but I found the VeeWipe Squeegee, a little do-dad that fits on your thumb or index finger to wipe off rain! Or, the Finger Visor Wipe, a two finger rubber squeezee--very cool!

I sometimes strap an old wristwatch on the handlebar of my bike. I thought this ingenious as I lack a clock on my instrument panel and looking at my wristwatch while riding isn't easy (or safe) with my jacket cuffs strapped down. I pulled out my Aerostich catalog and found "compass/thermometer/clock clips, ranging from $10 to $15 dollars! They snap right onto the handlebar! I'm ordering one soon. Aerostich is one of only two places I've found over-the-fuel-tank panniers that eliminate having to remove your tank bag to gas up. If you trying to do an Iron Butt ride, for example, where minutes counts, this is a neat invention.

So, when I arrive in Duluth , Aerostich was tops on my list. The looks of the place might surprise you. I had been warned that it's an "old warehouse," that has seen better days. It is tucked away in an old industrial part of Duluth. I passed it once, not expecting something so worn. The place has loads of charm. It strikes you as a place where folks labor. Hard.

I never saw a front door to enter, but a side door was open and a few bikes were parked outside. It can look unwelcoming at first as there was nothing that immediately invites you in. But this is Aerostich and I've slept with their catalog--we're on intimate terms! Besides, I've come a long way, surely they will admit me. I park Queenie next to a row of bikes and find my way inside.

It is definitely an old warehouse with people buzzing around engaged in work. I glance inside and could see people packing items. Stuff is ubiquitous! At first glance, the place can appear disorderly but soon your eyes settle in and you feel the form and logic of the space.

Behind a glass counter, a nice woman spoke to me and offered me coffee, soda or water. It was a water morning and I accepted the bottled water she handed me. She left me to drool over all the items I had heretofore only seen in the catalog. A father and teenage son were trying on Italian Sidi boots and I refrained for telling them how much I loved mine.

Peruse Aerostich's catalog at your own risk!

The only problem I see with Aerostich is that there is a high probability that you will experience considerable downward economic mobility! (See, that degree in sociology has not gone to waste--I can still speak the language). I'm convinced it's not possible for most people close the catalog without convincing her/himself that you need something and because prices can range from a few dollars to about $800 (for a Roadcrafter two piece suit) or over a thousand for a GPS, every budget can feel included. They don't just have gear and bike accessories, they feed my other addiction: books on every topic related to motorcycles from personal adventure narratives to instruction. I get through the winter with videos on motorcycle instruction, adventure rides, and a few Hollywood moto movies. You can find it all at Aerostich! Aerostich--my new addiction.

Before leaving, I purchased a couple of tee-shirts--one that proves I "Rode There." But I left with a list of things I will surely order later. I was given a gift for dropping in, which I will not reveal. If you go there, you'll get it too.

Back out on the street, I observe a man who appears to be in his late sixties, looking over Queenie. As is my custom, I size him up and think: I could definitely take him down if he is up to no good. As I approach my bike he kindly greets me and tells me that recently someone recommended he check out the SV. He looks her over and gives his approval. We talk about riding f or a few minutes. He lives in Duluth and hangs out around Aerostich (Aerostich groupie?). Before long, another rider, who looks like he has just stepped from an Aerostich catalog, exits the building and mounts his dualsport. He overhears the older gent telling me the best way to Hwy 2. The dualsport guy says he is going in that direction and offers to lead me. His bike is packed with the soft waterproof luggage, the kind you find in the Aerostich catalogue. Gear is hooked on his bike neatly, with straps more sophisticated than bungee cords. He looks like a serious adventure rider. Yes, I would follow him anywhere.

I say goodbye to my new friend and follow the dualsport guy but first I have to navigate a turn on a bumpy, gravely road in front of some Aerostich workers who appear to be on break. They stand along the warehouse wall, talking and watching the motorcycle tourists. I take it slow, not wanting to be remembered as the woman from IL who dumped her heavily loaded SV. Success!

Safely on the road, I follow the dualsport. Eventually, he toots and motions to my exit; I toot back to signal my thanks.

Order an Aerostich catalog! Even better, visit Aerostich, at 8 South 18th Avenue West, Duluth, MN. They treat you well.

It's an adventure!

Michigan trip--not happening!

I am trying to look on the bright side, but it's difficult. I had made plans to visit and ride with my cousin, Norman, who lives in MI. He owns two motorcycles and I was looking forward to introducing Queenie, meeting his rides, and riding with him. I needed this outing.

Much of last week we've had tornado warnings and torrential-like rains here, which have restricted my riding. Friday night rain continued to Saturday morning, but cleared by the early afternoon. At 1:30, I geared up, hopped on Queenie and headed out. Had a nice ride--just under 100 miles by the end of the day. Temps in the upper 70s, lower 80s--ideal riding conditions. Stayed out late, visiting relatives and just enjoying myself. I left the last house around 9pm. The temperature had dropped only a tad and a cool breeze, a full moon and a dark, clear sky made for a magical night ride home.

At some point, I noticed that the right turn signal didn't flash when I wanted it to. Then I tried the left. It flashed. Later, however, I used the left again and it didn't flash either. Hmmm... Tried it again, it flashed, but continued to work inconsistently the entire way home.

When I arrived home 90 minutes later, I repeatedly tested the signals. The left flashed intermittently; the right, not at all. I admit to being woefully ignorant when it comes to wrenching my bike. I'm learning some basics but still feel lost without detailed instructions. I must read up on everything and follow the directions to a tee. Bulb replacement, I figured, is a simple fix. That both signals were not consistently working made me think something more complex was transpiring. Why would both signals act up at the same time?

Well, if nothing else, I figured I could change the bulbs and see if that solved the problem. I have a rather elaborate Priority Lights set up that was disengaged before the Lake Superior trip because it was misbehaving. Since returning, I haven't had the replacement Priority Lights installed yet. So, changing bulbs on a stock set up would be a breeze, I thought.

Still, I read the "how-to" in the Clymer and Suzuki manuals. Great bedtime reading. Up this morning at 4am to change the bulbs. Things progress according to the book. Then, I open my rear compartment, where I keep all extra bulbs. I'm a nut about that. But...no bulbs. THEY ARE NOT THERE! Stunned!

I remove the Cruz-Tools kit, the tire plugger kit--no bulbs. I'm guessing that when Queenie was in to resolve the Priority Lights problem, stuff in the rear compartment was removed for easier access to the main fuse. Somehow the bulbs never made it back inside the compartment.

My heart sank. I had so hoped of going to Michigan, traveling along some off the same roads I covered last summer on the Lake Michigan Circle tour. I have Monday off...no time constraints for getting back.

While I had things pulled out, I fiddled with the exposed bulb on the left turn signal. It flashed. Tried it again. Nothing. The right never flashed. I lifted the tangle of wires in the rear compartment and tried the left turn signal again. It consistently flashed this time. Still no activity from the right. I placed the wires back inside the compartment and sometimes a flash, sometimes not from the left signal. Oh, well...looks like I won't be going anywhere. I stand in the garage feeling helpless and with no one around to whine to, I reassemble the light and leave.

My shop won't open again until Tuesday. I know of another shop that will be open on Sunday, but I'd need to take a bus or "the el" there since I no longer keep my car in the city. I don't even know if changing the bulbs will fix the problem. Do I want to race around chasing down bulbs if the issue is something else? Yeah, I'm willing to take that risk but it's not an efficient use of my time.

So, the only wheels I'll be riding today are my inline skates. I'll go along the lakefront and try to enjoy this heavenly weather. But I know that when I see a motorcycle on the street--and today there are bound to me tons--I give myself whiplash trying to track the bike. I'll probably whine a little too; hopefully, I can be mature about it all and know that "this too shall pass." It's not like I don't have a billion things to do that have been terribly neglected lately.

Still, I'm a little bummed!

Raw pics--finally up (sort of...)

Well, I've yet to put the commentary with each picture--don't know when that'll happen--but the raw pics are up if you're interested...

The Pow wow is here...

And, here are most of the others...

The 35mm film pics have yet to be posted.

“Long Way Down”—McGregor and Boorman are at it again!

By now, most motorcyclists--and some lucky non-motorcyclists-- have watched “Long Way Round,” the 19,000 miles motorcycle adventure of Scottish actor and author, Ewan McGregor and his pal, Charley Boorman. Their epic journey on matching BMW R1150GS Adventure bikes, carried them from London to New York, traveling through Western and Central Europe, Russia, Mongolia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, parts of Siberia and Canada.

Well, they’ve done it again! Recently, the daring duo completed the second installment, "Long Way Down," which will air soon on the BBC. This time the journey, captured by this soundbite: “Two men, two continents in 85 days and 15,000 miles,” transports the two from Scotland to Cape Town, South Africa. If you watched the first adventure, you know that this zany and courageous pair will meet up with incredibly interesting characters and find themselves facing major road, machine, global, and cultural challenges that are not only entertaining but also insightful and informative. I’m eagerly awaiting the television and DVD release.

In the meantime, you can get your fill of “Long Way Down” previews, information, and paraphernalia here.

Approximately 2300 miles and 440 pictures

I left Escanaba before 9am Thursday; I arrived home a little past 4pm happily tired after having ridden mostly straight through--with the exception of a yoghurt break, quick lunch and bathroom stops. The day before, I had hoped to ride home from Houghton/Hancock after visiting the Copper Harbor area but when it started to get late, I remembered the deer I saw more than a week prior around this same time that spooked me as I was making tracks to Marquette, MI. I had wanted to see how much seat time I could put in if the ride home had started from Houghton/Hancock. It’s good I didn’t test it and spent the night in Escanaba. By Wednesday’s end, I was exhausted and I don't recall when sleep arrived.

For lots of reasons—the subject of some future blogs—this was a magnificent trip. I hurt no one and didn’t hurt myself. The weather is a winner here (although one person’s win is sometimes another’s lost). The only rain I encountered occurred upon leaving Chicago on August 5th. It delayed my start and reared its head in a few spots along the route to Marquette, my official start point for circumnavigating Lake Superior. The rain, however, was never enough to worry about. In Canada, the weather couldn’t have been more ideal. Cool mornings, seventies in the afternoon, and beautiful evenings. No complaints in the UP--MI area either. My good fortune meant more suffering for the UP area. Chronic arid conditions hurt the environment and increase fire dangers--to mention a couple of things. I recall saying to someone in the Upper Peninsula that “I’ve been lucky, I’ve had great weather…” and the person smiling back and remarking, “But we’re hurting up here—we’ve not had much rain—we really need it.” Much deserved reality check.

Everywhere I rode, I saw Smokey the Bear signs indicating the “Very High” potential for fire. Although I heard that the origin of the fire near Newberry was probably a lightening strike, the fire’s rapid spread and subsequent lost of over 19,000 acres was possible because of the ongoing droughty conditions.

Anyone and I do mean anyone—regardless of vehicle preference—ought to get to Copper Harbor and in route, take some of the side trips too. First, getting to Copper Harbor was a great ride, beautiful, newly paved (in parts) and just heavenly. I must add that getting to Copper Harbor was downright cold and gusty. The ride became colder and more blustery the higher the elevation. This, however, is soon forgotten as one motors through the tree lined, squiggly, curvy roads that never end. The Copper Harbor town is replete with trendy shops, many of which feature the artistic treasure of local artists. I had a nice meal at the Mariner’s, across the street from the Visitors’ Center where one can spend a good chunk of time reading about the history of the area. I talked to the owner of Swedes, a shop on the harbor and learned a few things about this family’s history with the store and in the Cooper Harbor area.

The Brockway Mountain Drive has been written about many times. Tell a motorcyclists that you'll be in the area and Brockway Mountain Drive is the "must-do" that is always strongly recommended. Now that I’ve experienced it, I see why. It’s indescribably resplendent. I’d probably enjoy it in a car too but would miss all the sensory experiences that come with being on two wheels. On a bike, however, there is an added challenge to this northerly trek. The scenery is so compelling that if you don’t watch the road you can get yourself in trouble. Not only is the road up narrow, the people coming down as you go up are watching the views too. Thus, no one is really observing the road that closely. On a couple of ascents, I was surprised to find a car coming down that was way over to my side, which thereafter made me hug my outside edge. In spots, the road is rather bumpy, which adds to your need to pay attention. Alas, it’s just not possible to give full attention to the road, in my humble opinion. I suffered near whiplash looking to my left as I climbed up and this is exactly why one should do the mountain drive more than once. Some locals recommend going up and down the same way, via M26. Then go up again, by taking the Lakeshore side up. Doing so broadens your perspective greatly and you end up seeing things you didn’t on the other trips.

I wasn’t satisfied with the designated pullouts for viewing; I wanted to see it all. It’s breath-taking and I don’t believe it is captured well in pictures because depth is collapsed and one doesn’t get to breath in all that luscious air or feel the incredibly expanse of space there. I really did feel on top of the world as I looked out from the mountain, over all that greenery, water, and treetops that took thousands of years and environmental transformation to create. The mountaintop would be a wonderful spot for sunrises and sunsets. Now, I too have been to the mountaintop.

The trip to Aerostich next...

Tuesday’ Ride: Another Dispatch on my Lake Superior trek

(Draft)

More gorgeous weather on Wednesday. The ride from MN to WI and then into MI was spectacular. By now, I thought the rolling hills, amazing postcard views and clear air would be routine but that is far from the truth. I can’t get enough of this. All the other things will make you long for home.

Yesterday I began the push towards home. I rode roughly 255 miles of straight through riding. Look at the links, although they don’t do justice to the ride, you can at least see how far north I rode.

I started near Duluth, MN in Proctor, from there back to Duluth—a hop, skip and a jump away. I had to visit the famous Aerostich “wearhouse”—definitely worth the short backtrack. From Duluth, I headed to Hwy 2 until reaching Hwy 13, which I took to Red Cliff, WI, home of the Red Cliff Band of Chippewa Indians. My next ride carried me through the quaint town of Bayfield, WI, where I fought off hunger with a bottle of Energy Sobe and a banana.

From Bayfield one goes through the town of Washburn. I hopped back on Hwy 2 east to Ashland, WI where I continued to Ironwood, which put me back into Michigan. Rode Hwy 2 until a split near Wakefield, WI where I pick up MI state highway 28 and follow it northeasterly to MI-64 north to Silver City. It was an interesting little detour from Bergland, MI, north to Silver City, which allowed for great views. Although this added about an hour to my plans, the peaceful riding was great—talk about a quiet road. From Silver City it is a fine, fine ride to Ontonagon, MI. Highway 26 takes me to my next resting place in Houghton. I arrived tired and decided to settle in at a Best Western hotel in Hancock, MI “across the bridge.” For the most part, I was in the saddle over 9 hours of which more than seven was actual riding. The roads were fun, challenging and diverse enough to keep me alert. Long stretches of total isolation (miles of not seeing another vehicle) and a few miles of construction but nothing major.
^^^

Now I long from home…

Something has bitten me and I have an attractive, spreading rash.

Two motorcycle riders, in full “uniform” (shaven head, covered by do-rag, leather vest, portly, tattoos (think Del Fuegos, from the movie “Wild Hogs”) give me a scare but turn out to be really nice

Every time I stretch, I get major charley horses in both leg muscles that bring tears to my eyes and wake me up during the night.

Underwear count, down to two pairs

Tired of slow, iffy wireless Internet connections.

Tired of beds shared by thousands of strangers.

Still, I wouldn’t change a think.

Nevertheless, it’s to start heading home…

Travel woes and joys--Draft Dispatch

Since when did paying for anything in cash become a problem for hotels and a huge headache for me?! I’ve now had the misfortune of staying at several hotels, the last of which was in Duluth, that think it makes sense to charge me twice for a room I’ve used only one night. I use a debit card with a Visa or MasterCard logo. Some hotels do some sort of pre-authorization of the amount of the room or a $200 standard fee.

Then when I’m preparing to pay in cash the next morning, the hotel clerk says, “It’ll be several days before the money is returned to your account.” “What? I said I would be paying in cash. I gave you the card to hold the room—I explained that? Why was there any money applied to my account?” They typically say, “Oh, that’s fine but we had to apply a $200 pre-authorization fee—that’s our policy when people use debit cards--just so that people don’t walk off without paying.” When this first happened, I said, “I can pay for the room in cash upon checking in.” Evidently, that’s not enough, I guess, because late in the night, I could go nuts and damage the room and then where would they be? This makes no sense given that they have the imprint of my card. Besides, having one’s credit card does not resolve folks from the walking away after damaging a room. They press me by saying, “Do you have a regular credit card? If you have a regular credit card, then we wouldn’t” have to the pre-authorization? Another truly dumb and lame response. I prefer to pay in cash—why am I being hassled? And one would think the hotels would want the cash.

In one hotel, I said at the very beginning. “I will be paying in cash. Are there penalties for doing so?” I was told, “Oh, no.” I asked, “Do you apply a “down payment or pre-authorization to my debit/credit card” (which I had to give to hold the room. “No—we don’t do that to our customers.” But in several other hotels, using cash has been a pain in the gluts! I just don’t get it, particularly given the fee hotels are charged with each credit card transaction. With the debit/credit card, the cash is there and an easy check confirms that the money is available. This means some letter writing when I return home!

Foreign Currency

When I left Sault Ste Marie, MI on my way to Sault Ste Marie, Ontario I would have to be riding with my eyes closed to miss the number of government run currency exchanges for trading my American bills into Canadian dollars. I asked the clerk there if I would be able to do the reverse when I re-entered the good ole USA. She said, “I think so, since you’ll be doing another border crossing. That was her guess but she wasn’t 100% certain.

When I left Thunder Bay, Ontario and saw that I was preparing to crossover, I pulled out of the lane and into the Canadian customs place. I dismounted and went inside. I said I’m just returning from Canada and don’t know the procedures. I failed to ask him about changing money. Frankly, it wasn’t on my mind and I was thinking I would see the signs soon. I was in the wrong place, he told me, “there’s no reason to stop here unless you’re Canadian. He directed to the American side.

There, I was interrogated by a man with a Canadian accent on where I’d been, the nature of my visit, where I was going, did I have anything dangerous or illegal stuff with me. Cars in front of me were searched. My bike was not. Before leaving, the man said, “I like your hair.” Coming at the end of some serious questioning, the comment threw me off guard. I smiled and motored on, forgetting to ask if the currency exchanges were ahead. Moreover, I didn’t think he could change it from his little tollbooth.

I drove and drove and never saw money-exchanging signs. “Definitely,” I thought, I’ll find something in Duluth. I spent a good part of Monday looking for a place to exchange the money in Duluth. Someone told me that Wells Fargo “should—they’re big around here.” Wells Fargo initially told me that they would. Then while at the counter they found out that I wasn’t a customer. If I open an account, however, they would exchange the money. One of the employees actually told me it might be worth it to open an account to get the money traded, that I could always close the account later. Made no sense to me! Besides, I’d have to use some of the money to start the account. I will never have an account with Wells Fargo. I will say that a wonderfully kind young woman in personal banking at Wells Fargo felt badly –and surprised—that Wells wouldn’t exchange the money. When she went to check more, she returned looking rather embarrassed. She then spent a lot of time calling to hotels, which I needed for the night to see if they would take the Canadian money. Hotels that would take the money, had no rooms; those that had rooms, would not take the foreign currency. A popular weekend blues festival that ended late Sunday night in Duluth made hotel availability slim to none. Primacy was given to room availability, which meant the whole cash/pre-authorization deal.

Before leaving, I made two stops. One, to K-Mart to purchase batteries (forgot to charge the rechargeables last night). Before going into the store, I briefly made eye contact with a young man who was looking at my bike, I guess. Five minute later, he came up to me in the store and said, “You left your keys in your bike. I saw the turn signal flashing and I thought it would go off automatically. But it didn’t, then I saw that you had left your keys in the bike.” I thanked him like crazy. In my head I said, “DANG!! Just give the bike away, why don’t ‘cha!” Stupid mistake that would, I bet, get my gal-pal stolen in many places. I think I’m getting tired. When I’m tired, I’m forgetful.

My second stop, I headed to the post office where I met a man who reminded me of Paul Bunyon, I don’t know why, really, he just did. Big and tall, hairy (facial and head). His long wild ponytail was the result of riding a motorcycle without a helmet, I later learned. In line to do his own post office business, the clerk pointed him out as someone who might know where to exchange foreign currency. He said what I thought was Paul-America. Later when he looked it up in the phone directory, I saw that it was actually PawnAmerica. He was confident that they would exchange the money. We talked motorcycles a little and he came out to check out Queenie—he approved. He rode a big Honda cruiser—I think an Aero.

After “Paul Bunyon” left, another man whom I recognized from the PO line pulled up in his car. “Do you know where you’re going?” I told him I thought so and was programming my GPS to find the location for me. He said, “Follow me--I’ll take you there?” Hmmm….been there before. I thanked him as profusely as I could, but he kept saying, “I’m going that way, I don’t mind taking you—no problem.” I continued to say I didn’t want to inconvenience him and that the GPS would get me there...”but thanks so much, you’re very kind.” This went on and on before he finally said, “Well, okay then.”
In my brain, I can’t help think that such offers will result in being slaughtered. I tried not to hold it against him that his car’s interior looked like someone had been murdered in it—my car gets out of hand on occasion too. Even if his car were spotless, I would never follow anyone anywhere no matter how lost I am. Then I recalled those lonely moments out on Hwy 17. Had nightfall come, I don’t know what I would have done.

Before heading for the expressway (I-35), I pulled into a gas station to check something on the GPS. I looked up and saw Western Bank, a small branch-like office. I figured, why not try it since I’m here. Went inside, like at Wells Fargo, the personal banking assistant told me that “Sure, we can do that for ya.” I thought, here we go again, another employee not knowing what her bank does. She told me that someone at the counter would help me. Just like at Wells Fargo. A strikingly blond, friendly young man who looked 15 said he’d be happy to exchange the money. I’m thinking this is his summer job and he’s playing bank teller. I asked, “Are you sure—I’m not a customer…” Why I said that is beyond me. “Oh, we do this all the time.” I told him that WF would too but only if I opened an account. He didn’t seem surprised, and said, “Yeah, I know that they have a hard push for getting new accounts.” He also told me that he is a motorcycle rider (my helmet and jacket are hard to miss). We chatted about my trip and I mentioned that I wanted to ride the Scenic Skyline Parkway. He told me that it’s indeed scenic but very bumpy for a motorcycle. He once rolled a car on it, “so be careful.”

Today is the first day in eight days where the weather is a concern. It was sunny for only a short time. By late afternoon, the clouds had rolled in. The winds were strong and riding the bridge to Superior, WI was not fun but manageable—sort of like riding along Lake Shore Drive in Chicago on a blustery day. When the bike starts feeling like you’re riding sideways, you countersteer. Well, today was a day of countersteering.

I never made it to the Scenic Skyline Parkway; I went to The Depot instead and walked around the area along Michigan Street and 5th. By 5pm, the sky was gray and I felt a marked drop in the temperatures. It was downright cold on I-35 heading south to the hotel. Cold!

I went to dinner at Blackwood Grill & Bar in Proctor, MN where I consumed the best meal thus far. My selection, “Jimmy’s coconut shrimp.” By the time I left, it was drizzling. At 10:30p.m., some three hours later, it was lightening and thundering. I’m hoping it ends before morning when I plan to push the riding and begin making my way to Wisconsin and the Apostle Islands. My emphasis is now on riding, not touring. I’m getting tired of strange beds and missing mine.

Think Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion radio show. It finally hit me that the accents I’ve been hearing in Minnesota from the wait staff, hotel clerks, and friendly strangers, is one I’ve heard many times before and couldn’t put my finger on. It came to me in a restaurant. These are the people made famous (or infamous) by Keillor. I heard a lot of friendly, “Don’t ya know,” and, “Okay then,” and “Be right with ya” “No problem.”

Just when I start believing the world is a rotten place, things start to tip the other way and stuff happens that restores my faith in the basic decency of most humans. Those who really, truly annoy and wear their ignorance like a badge o honor are in the minority. I’ve met a nice bunch of folks along the way and Duluth was right up there with the best...

Tomorrow morning I’m heading for the famous Aerostich, a “wearhouse” catalog of everything motorcycle: gear, gadgets, books, and videos--all related to two wheel travel.