"So, what... you ride a Ducati?!" and feeling the fear of southern Indiana

Saturday, May 30, 2009

I wake up tired but still wanting to take advantage of the day. The weather is cool and cloudy with rain seemingly only moments away. Yet those cheery meteorologists on the Weather Channel claim the day will brighten and warm up. But some parts of Indiana are bracing for a storm. I decided to forego heading to Vincennes, IN today. Just not feeling it. I'm think Dunes! Depending on my start point and the point at which I want to enter, the Indiana National Dunes Lakeshore is about 50 miles away. A nice 100 miles plus round trip sounds fun, stress-free and an opportunity to hike the sand dunes. Besides, I haven't visited the dunes in years, although I pass by them often.

I take my time departing. Before hitting the road, I pack hiking clothes and shoes, my Nikon D80, and stop at a local deli to create a take out lunch.  There are some great roads leading to the dunes. One can go via back roads, lightly traveled highways, or superslab it. I took the latter, given that I leave so late. Last time I ventured this way, I took the wonderfully shaded, wooded and scenic route that sticks close to Lake Michigan's lakeshore. 

The destination ride is uneventful but I can feel the excitement mount in thinking about the hike. Last summer, I visited many state parks for the expressed purpose of hiking and taking pictures. I miss that.  When I get to the National Lakeshore,  I pull into the Visitors Center (VC)  and stamp my Passport book, my first stamp from Indiana. I watch a video about the dunes formation, land acquisition, and lakeshore conversation.  The weather is beach beautiful! I dress for hiking. I find a place for lunch, read a tad, prep my camera and ready for the hike. 

Sand dune hiking is a challenge as the footing is uneven but I enjoy every step. Since it was already after 5pm, I take a one mile hike near West Beach. Doing so, makes me realize how,  in pursuing stamps, I'm getting away from what I enjoy most, that is, using my bike as a favorite mode of transportation to visit parks and other places to enjoy nature, history and some alone time. It is a lovely day! I watch the gulls play with each other and dance on the water.  Riding 300 or so miles to reach a national site before the VC closes makes enjoying the terrain a secondary matter at best.  On too many occasions, I arrive and don't have time to even watch the video!  Saturday had everything and it all turned out so well. Beautiful lake scenes, clean beach area, friendly sun worshippers and nice photo opportunities. I hike the quite sandy forest and dunes feeling renewed with each step. 

When I leave the beach, I feel lighter, unloaded with the previous week's stress. I head to my house in the suburbs. I hang out, have dinner with husband and daughter, both of whom are leaving for Portugal Sunday for two weeks. I will join them the second week.  Later that night, I head downtown Chicago. I park Jesse Owens (my bike's name, in case you don't know that) and enter the building's elevator. 

A young 20-something guy, dressed in chic hip hop fashion (that is, expensive hip hop) looks at me with what looks like s smirk, sort of, on his face. It is part smirk, part "Look at me, I'm the definition of Kool." I am facing the elevator door; he is facing my left shoulder. He is looking me up and down with a half smile, full smirk. "So, what...you ride a Ducati?"   I want to respond to him in my horrible Robert DeNiro (Taxi Driver)  impression and say, "You talkin' to me?" But I resist. Instead, I look as incredulous as I can and say, "What?" He repeats himself. I calmly say, "No." I leave it at that. "So what do you ride?" He continues his head to toe body scan.  "Eight hundred BMW." His response, "Awww."  His look is one I can't decipher but  I later wonder what that exchange was all about. 

The storms in parts of Indiana are over. The weather in southern Indiana will be ride-perfect. Mid-seventies and mild wind. I head out around 6am for Vincennes, IN.  Before I leave, Dave puts air in my tires, makes homemade oj for me and debates with me about my instrument panel, which is basically the same as his F650GS.  I decided to do a little superslabbing but mostly I stay on secondary highways, which will take longer but will be far more scenic. For much of the way, I take US 41 south. This will take me through Terre Haute, a place I've avoided most of my life.  Although Indiana is Midwest, like Illinois, it has towns that extend far south, some more southern in culture, values, and dispositions than many southern cities--even the accents let you know you're in the south. 

Terre Haute used to be a hot bed of KKK activity. As a history major, I can still recall some of legacy. So, I decide to not only ride through, I will stop in Terre Haute.  I get gas and strangest of all, stop and talk to a Terre Haute policeman. Because the gas pump didn't give me my receipt, I am forced to go inside, where a policeman stands. As I enter, he walks to the outer side of the counter. I decide to make a pot stop there. But it is occupied. I wait and the policeman says, "Where you heading?" My mind flashes to the movie, "In the Heat of the Night." I can't help it...this is how my mind can sometimes wander.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

"Vincennes," I say. He then asks me a series of questions. He seems like a nice enough gent. It's me trying to get over my history issues. I soften when he admires my bike and tells me about a friend who "will only ride BMWs now..." He asks my opinion on BMW bikes. I give my overtly biased perspective. As I leave, he tells me to enjoy myself and to be careful.  I relax. As I walk to my bike another encounter with a stranger.

"Been dangerous out there lately, uh?" I answer him the way he ended his question. He then proceeds to tell me about the people who have been killed on motorcycles recently, many of whom, according to him, have died as a result of being rear ended. He tells me those are accidents "no" rider can control.  I can't help wonder why he feels the need to share this with me at this time. I thank him and give him a "what will be, will be" hunch. He tells me how he used to ride a motorcycle and how he loved it at the time. But now things are different. He's found it too dangerous and so he stopped riding. There it is. Finally, he reveals himself; he shows his true colors. It goes something like this, "I used to ride a motorcycle. Now, I don't. So you should stop too and do as I do as I am the enlightened one."  

George Rogers Clark National Historic Park. The monument is being renovated so I could only look at it from behind a fence. In the VC, I watch the video, which was really quite good. Clark is the brother to the famous explorer William Clark of Lewis & Clark. George Rogers Clark came from a wealthy family where many of the male children accomplished great things. George successfully led an incredibly small, rag tag group of soldiers who defeated the British for land in what is now part of IL, IN, KY and MI. I enjoyed my time in Vincennes and I motored around the small, old town to check out some of the sites and observe the people. Vincennes also happens to be home of Vincennes University, the oldest public university in the state. 

My ride home would be via Indianapolis, a bit out of the way, but whenever I'm within 100 miles of Shapiro's Deli, I will make that detour. I love Shapiro's! Were it not for hating to ride with a heavy meal in my belly, I'd eat myself into another dimension at Shapiro's. The entrees look scrumptious and hearty, the kind Grandmothers make to fatten you up. I always settle for a tuna sandwich, which is a two meal affair for sure.

 

I always add a slice of cake, a treat I rarely get to indulge--and the homemade selections are vast.  I always get to bring half the meal home for later enjoyment. I will go to Shapiro's any day for lunch. And dinner. And stay over the night for breakfast!

Belly full, I ride home oblivious to the time it takes. I pull into the garage at 10:08 pm. 

Weekend total miles: 757.00

Degree of fun = immeasurable!

Erie, PA to Sweet Home, Chicago (draft)

By Sunday night, it dawns on me while I am studying the map and the many "must-see" places that I have way too many things to see and do and not enough time in which to do them. So, I make a note of the places I'd love to see but can't and vow to return to those places at another time. This is difficult to swallow. A pal from the F800riders forum has given me a ton of interesting things to see and do while in Cleveland. Those places new to me, I vow to return to. Fortunately, these parts of Ohio are easy to reach and return home in a day's ride. I settle on collecting a couple of stamps and taking the long route, that is, following the coast as far as I can yet still make it home by Monday night--no if ands or buts. 

I agree with William Murphy in his book Motorcycling Across Michigan, that the whole point of a lake circle tour is to travel as close to the lake as possible, seeing it from all its various perspectives. With this in mind, I prepare to do a lot of riding, accepting that at some point I will need to hop to the interstate to save time and make my way home. Traveling is a trade off. At times, some things get tossed; tough choices may be made. Whatever. I'm just glad I'm in a position to travel via two wheels.  

I sleep well Sunday night. I wake up a bit too early, however. I do more mapping and eventually leave around 9am-- a little late for me but I'm a prisoner to the national parks visitor centers. Many open at 9 or 10. I learned that one of the places I want to visit won't open until noon--or so I thought.  Like the other lake trips, this one is cold.  No matter the inland temperature, which was gorgeous, lake temps tend to run from cool to cold and require dressing appropriately. Well fed, packed and jacket liner in, I head towards Conneaut, OH.

I make my way to State Hwy 5 and follow its southwesterly path as it embraces the lake. Often, the road takes on another name in a small town, like Lakeshore Drive, but if one just stays on the road closest the lake, the rewards eventually come in the form of gently rolling dips and turns, gradual climbs uphills and steep downward swoops. Pennsylvania has some great roads many of which Steve, from Scooter in the Sticks, presents beautifully in both words and pictures.  As I travel today, Lake Erie is on my right.  At times, the view is open an the space clear. I can see Erie's vast blue waters that blend so well with an azure sky. Most times, I must peek through the openings between the many house and cottages that lined the shore.

 

"Lucky people," I think. "What do they do to afford such prime land?"  

Looking at the lake is one of the joys of these trips but also one of the inherent dangers, in my view.

The speed limit on such roads tends to be between 35 and 45 mph. Occasionally, it will reach 55mph but that's not the norm particularly through the small towns.  Although the going can be slow, it is best experienced at a leisurely pace. Some of the views are breathtaking enough to be distracting. One runs the risk of taking too long a view and forgetting what is on the road ahead.  Many of these roads are surprisingly lightly traveled. I had no problem doing the speed limit--much to the ire of others following behind me.

I leave Pennsylvania behind and cross into Ohio and enter the town of Conneaut. Despite its cheery and welcoming appearance, I do not wish to stop; the ride is that lovely.  I have three stops in Ashtabula. If I am efficient I can do them quickly and continue the long ride along the coast. Timing is everything. I start humming Bob Dylan songs trying to come up with the one that has Ashtabula among the lyrics.  I never figure it out but have fun, happily motoring and sneaking looks at the lake.

I think of one huge difference among the other lakes I have circled. Lake Erie is modest not just in size; Lake Erie is humble in its presentation. One will not find as many pull-off places. These spots allow you to park and take a closer look, which can mean climbing for a "on-high" perspective. It allows one to relish and contemplate the landscape.  One must access the water via its natural habitat (e.g., beaches, trails, marinas, parks, ports, etc), or, trespass on private property. Lake Michigan and Lake Superior, on the other hand, are boastful in their presentation. Each is brazen in displaying its beauty, showing its colors, breath, and diversity. The pull-offs are ubiquitous, each special place is offered up as if with a grand sweep and turn of the hand as if to say, "Here I am, adore me, love me, sink into my essence."  The Michigan side of Lake Michigan is a piece of heaven. Lake Superior is heaven at its ultimate best. This is not to diminish Lake Erie, it is after all a great lake too! In fact, Lake Erie is a come back lake after being declared virtually dead about a decade ago it's rebirth is nothing short of a miracle that shows no traces of its earlier demise. 

I reach the Ashtabula's harbor area and stop at the Great Lakes Marine and Coast Guard Memorial Museum.From there I should be able to see the lighthouse far off into the distance and stare at the newly finished, more people-friendly harbor area. A huge bonus is that the Marine and Coast Guard Museum is down the street from Hubbard House, a terminus on the underground railroad for sheltering escaping slaves. I pull into the parking lot and notice a small group of "mature" men talking to one another.

When I dismount, a fast walking man approaches his vehicle. I see him and what seems almost like an afterthought he walks over to me and introduces himself. I'll call him Jack. He is tall, thin and immediately tells me his a "bullheaded blue fin." At least, I think that's what he said. He extends his hand and tells me that he was a former "seaman" as are all the guys milling about. 

He is a fast talker too who tells me he was a "Harbor brat." "I grew up right here in this harbor--been here all my life. I've seen the changes..."  Jack tells me that he used to be quiet and reserved until he married his wife, a "Irish-German-Italian woman." We start talking all things under the sun. At one point he is chatting about music and asks me if I know what a dulcimer is. I give him an "Are you kidding me look!" But I'm thinking, "What am I, a dolt?! Of course, I know what a dulcimer is!"

When I tell him what it is, it is he who now looks astonished. He quickly tells me that most people don't know what it is. I tell him how much I adore string instruments and especially the sound of a dulcimer.  His face brightens. I guess it is my lucky day. He returns to his truck and brings me a dulcimer that he practically remade from a kit. I am unable to contain my excitement. It is a fine instrument and he and his wife are seriously dulcimer students. 

I must confess, I had not planned to tour this museum. I had wanted only to get in, buy a trinket for my godson and leave. After talking to this man for a long time, and hearing about the dangers of seamen, and this being Memorial Day, I couldn't say "No" when he asked me to be a guest of his at the museum. I just couldn't resist this kind gesture.

 So I did but first the museum had to open and the men had to hoist flags.

Then, I take Jack's private tour. When he is asked if he wants to take a couple on the same tour he responds, "No, I'd rather do this separate."  

The tour is long, interesting and I learn a lot--did I say long. I also make a new friend. Jack tells me that whenever I return to Ashtabula, I must stay at his home, that his wife would be "thrilled" to meet me. I am glad I took the tour but when it ends, it is now almost 2.5 hours since I rolled into the parking lot. "Dang!" I do some yoga breathing and release it.  

Before leaving, one of the women in the gift shop tells me that my second stop, which is down the street, is closed on holidays--UGH!! I go to Hubbard House anyway for a photo op. This house was a major stop along the underground railroad. Ohio is so important to the history of this period. The influence of Quakers in OH--especially-- can be seen everywhere in these "underground stations" for runaway slaves. Also, OH has important waters, like the Ohio River and Lake Erie that made clandestine escapes more possible. 

I am now realizing that I need to be home TODAY! I am now hungry and behind schedule. I think of my stop in Cleveland. It is huge. Lots of things to do and see. I decided to shelve it all. I've seen a lot of Cleveland but will add the new places when I return next month.  I decide that I still have time to get to Mentor, OH. I do so and am glad I did. This time, I tell myself, I can't take the tour. Get the stamp watch the customary short video and that's it. 

The mostly interstate ride toward Cleveland is mundane. In Mentor, OH I reach President James A Garfield's home, aka "Lawnfield" by reporters.

     

This National Historic Site is located in an easily reachable location, 8095 Mentor Ave.  I watch a compelling video that inspires me to take the tour. I resist, however, and reluctantly move on.            

But I do walk through the exhibit. In the end, I spend more than an hour there. Now I am really behind schedule. But I talk myself into ignoring the clock--a little. And to prove that, I decide to take the scenic, lakeshore route to Cleveland. It will be slow(er) going but the ride promises to be sweet. I will make a determination after that on getting home. 

One rather confusing feature of this lake trip that I did not experience on the other two is the relatively poor signage--at least to me. On the Lake Michigan trip you can travel without a map. Just follow the green and white signs and you'll be directed all the way around. Same is true for Superior. On a few occasions one might think they've lost the trail but just when you think this, a sign pops up to light the way.

Lake Erie, once you get back on American soil, has a lot going on. I think this is good and bad. It's good because all along the way there are tons of things to see and do.  It's bad because the signs posted to follow the Lake Erie Circle Tour can seem to disappear for long stretches--miles, in fact--and can cause confusion if one is dependent on it. The circle tour also follows much of the Seaway Trail in OH. Also, the OH Coastal Trail is part of this route. So, what does one follow when one sign wants you to go one way and another signs wants you to go another and you haven't seen the Erie sign in miles?  Signage colors can be a tad puzzling too. In PA, I think the signs are blue and white; they are green and white in OH, with some blue ones thrown in too (if memory serves me well).  It pays to have a map as well as a GPS. Eventually, I ignore many of the OH Lake Erie signs and follow the Seaway Trail. Eventually, somehow I always ended up back on the official route. Instead, I tried to follow Murphy's map and my own notes. It's difficult to get lost with Murphy.

Around Cleveland, I see that the GPS has me arriving home at around 10pm. It will be much later as I haven't had lunch or dinner yet. Hmmm... It's hard to believe it will that late given this bright, sunny, shiny day with hours remaining before the setting sun. I am tempted to do more touring... Unfortunately, the Interstate does become my home for the next seven hours! Near Cleveland, I see a motorcycle post-accident. Don't know what happened but one badly damaged bike is sitting off in the grass, with policemen blocking off one lane.  Another rider has his bright yellow and black sportsbike parked near an underpass. He appears rather forlorn and I wonder about the other rider.  Right before this spot in the road is a large, ostentatious sign that warns drivers so slow down to 35mph for a curve ahead that appears to be an extremely sharp curve. Perhaps, the missing 'cyclist didn't slow down enough.

While riding along, I decide that before the ride season ends, I shall return to Geneva-on-the-Lake, which is southwest of Ashtabula, and follow the Ohio Coastal Tour through Toledo.  

I roll into the garage at 11:34p.m. It is after midnight when I finish unpacking the bike and removing all my gear.  I thank the heavens above for all the good things under the sun.

Lake Erie proves that it can stand up to its big cousins not by competing directly with Michigan or Superior but by being a lake with its own resilience and beauty. Three down, two to go. Go around any of these three, and you'll know why these lakes are called "Great." 

Home, safe and sane

Dear family and friends (that includes any and all readers!)

I arrived home after midnight last night. Yikes!  Lots to share but for now just a note to acknowledge getting home whole. I will post my last day draft ride report later today.  Lake Erie is beautiful! How does it compare to Lake Michigan and Lake Superior? Hmmm...interesting question.

Had a great time! Put 1300 miles on the new Roadsmart tires. Love them. I am preparing to head out again this weekend. So, let the planning begin!

A belated, meaningful Memorial Day to all those who felt the calling and acted on it.

London, Ontario to Erie, PA & a very drunk man (Rough draft)

(Note: Sorry for the off the top note and unedited pics. I'm far more exhausted than usual but I plan to write a full ride report at a later time. Here, I'm just letting you know I'm okay).

I am behind schedule but "Johnny crack corn and I don't care." Why did I think of that...the brain is an amazing matter.  

 Sunday was special on so many levels! Even this confirmed solo rider spent a part of the day riding with a great friend. My pal Lucas, who lives in Niagara on the Lake, rode down to Port Dover, Ontario to meet with me and ride. We made no concrete plans except to "try" to meet.

Port Dover is the motorcycle mecca of Ontario--at least in this part of the universe.  Every Friday the 13th hundreds and hundreds of motorcyclists converge on this motorcycle-friendly little port town. Although it was not the 13th, a plethora of bikes, many of them loud and shiny--if you get my picture--filled the small, picturesque lakeside village. Quaint shops and quirky characters are omnipresent.

Lucas said we were each about an hour from Port Dover and should get there around the same time. I tried to stick to the GPS but didn't and it cost me probably 30 minutes. But as I pulled into town, I made a turn that put me a block away from the action. When I rode around the block, I spotted the backside of a hi-viz yellow jacket out of the corner of my eyes. I decided to follow it because Lucas wears one. As he pulled into a parking space, I pulled right behind him. It was Lucas! We arrived at the exact same moment! 

Lucas rides a Kawasake Versys, a beautiful bike that reminds me of my beloved Suzuki SV650. Lucas has farkeled that bike beautifully. 

 

I'd love that bike but it is as we say in Chicago, "A tall drink of water." I would be on my tippy-toes.  It's a "do it all bike,"--made motorcycle of the year in '08. It's a standard yet able to handle off road. It was so great seeing Lucas. He's a skilled rider and I love learning from him. We talked bikes and riding for a while and then had a wonderful perch dinner. I was hungrier than I thought and didn't think to take a "food picture." When people are around, I enjoy eating a meal, when they are not, I don't always think about eating--my proof that eating is a social event to me more than a survival issue. The meal was like a drug. I felt great afterwards and it lasted a very long time.

We had a great gathering.  But the ride together back to the states was the best! Lucas knows some amazing backroad stretches. Everything was perfect. Let's just say, he's a spirited rider, who loves curves and loves a little pep in his step--his wheels roll! Lucas is an American living in Canada and will soon be a Canadian citizen--Yay!!

Lucas rode with me all the way to a very nice park from which we watched the Peace Bridge and we stared across the way to Buffalo, New York. Lucas gave me some ride instructions and we parted company way too soon.  I made the border crossing and toured a bit of Buffalo, which struck me as  sad. Very sad, which I'll write more about at another time.  I got to Lackawanna, which is also economically depressed on many levels too. Yet, people find joy no matter where--even if that joy is artificially stimulated.

I wanted to go to the building on Wasson Street in Lackawanna. It's the setting of a movie called Lackawanna Blues. I reached it, thanks to Lucas knowing the address (he went there and I've wanted to go there since). A overtly drunk man was sitting outside. I stopped the bike a ways down (not wanting to deal with the man) and tried to get a decent picture. He was yelling to someone across the street to give him money. I snapped a picture and he turned and waved to me. I nodded. He spotted the camera (I had the G10--something small). He motioned for me to take his picture and I said to myself, "Dang, I was hoping to avoid this."

From there I took the picture and he motioned for me to come over. Reluctantly, I dismounted the bike and walked toward him. I knew that some drama would ensue. I just knew it. I'm for drama. I'm just not for dealing with drunks. He was not just inebriated, he was sloppy, sloppy, walking sideways two steps then forward one step and backways several steps, drunk! He had the tubescent(sp?) features of a drunk-- that puffy "hyper" look to one's pores that always makes the person's face look swollen. When I did my dissertation work, I became an expert in spotting such characters and many of them had more than their share of drama. 

He said, "I'm Sunny Hall" (which was his street name) and I'm the one who kicked the devil's ass and sent him on his way." I nodded and smiled. "Take my picture beautiful." I took his picture. "Come here, talk to me. I'm looking for a nice girlfriend, I need somebody." I smiled and said I was married. "I don't give a damn 'bout that--where he at now?"  I didn't answer. He motioned with his hands as if to say, "Where is he?"  He posed for me to take another picture. I did. I said, "Isn't this the place they made a movie." He smile at recalling it. "Yes, I was the one who kicked the devil's ass." I tried to recall if that was a scene in the movie or only in the movie playing in this guy's head. I couldn't remember...

I took a few pictures of the building. And, finally Sunny asked me for money. I reached in my pocket and had four coins--all Canadian. I gave him the seven dollars and asked if he could use that. "Sure, I can, I'm trying to get money to get home." (This is the same line I hear in Chicago all the time, and there too, I try to keep coins in my pocket and give a bit here and there). He proceeded to ask me, no press me, for my number. I told him I wasn't from around there. When he learned where I was from it seemed to attract him more. "Damn, from Chicago, all the way on that bike, damn, see you're the kind of woman I need in my life. I want to get to know you. You could help me...I want to get next to you. What's you name?"

I was deliberately vague and only gave my first name. He then gave me his real name. He felt that any man deserving of me would not "let" me out. I thanked him for the pictures. "Will you call me? When you gone let me get to know you?" It amazes me that he would even think he's be love-worthy. I admired his confidence!  I stressed being unavailable but thanked him again for the pictures. He then asked for some American money. I told him I couldn't really help him I had no small bills, which I didn't hesitate not to say to him.  Men like him are not violent; they are typically harmless. They're just drunks. Often talkative and friendly.  I could tell this was alcohol not any of the shooting up, sniffing or smoking drugs.  I told him I might have a dollar, which he said would help him "a lot." 

He followed me to the bike and as we walked there I hoped that the large bills I had placed inside were not showing. I told him I had no small bills and he eagerly said he could get anything changed in the store. I gave him the $1 I had and with the Canadian coins I told him he had more than enough to get home. He smiled and said, "You're smart too. See I need someone body like you in my life--I could love you. God sent you. You could help me straighten out" He went on and could forever. He insisted I take down his number. "I want you to call me. I stay with my mother. Now she's particular about people calling her house but she'll be okay with you. I don't really live there, but I stay there." Translation: His mother's house is the place he receives mail, messages and can occasionally get a meal or two. I took his address and promised to mail him a picture, which he thought made him look handsome. I will do that. We parted and he tried to kiss me a couple of times and thank God for helmets. Each time he tried, I lowered my head and blocked him with my helmet. "Please, I'm married and don't..." He responded each time, "I don't care about that, I want to get to know you." Another good reason to ALWAYS wear a helmet.

The ride to Erie, PA was beautiful. I followed 5 southwesterly all the way, catching glimpses and full views of Lake Erie. I made a stop or two to take it all in but mostly I rode.  The smooth ride put me in a nice zone  where everything seemed on auto pilot. For miles and miles of curvy, sweeping roads on relatively lightly traveled ground, I reached Erie, PA way too soon. I had an urge to moto on to Cleveland, but Lucas said there was a Panera's in Erie right on 5 and when I saw that, I stopped and had dinner. The hotel, which I selected just because it was a Comfort Inn downtown, was a couple of blocks from the Panera's. I got in around 9pm, belly full, tired and ready for my Memorial Day outing. Memorial Day...uh oh, parades. It might be slow going...

I'll ride in honor of what the day really means and thank those who risked and gave their lives for others...

Hope your day has meaning...  

The Circle Begins--Lake Erie

Friday, May 22, 2009  (very rough draft)

My third Great Lakes trip is underway. HOMES--that's how I learned all the great lakes as a child. HOMES  stands for Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie and Superior. I always wondered about those lakes. Even Lake Michigan, the one I'm live near. What's on the other side? Who are the people who reside over there? What do their towns look like? I didn't know much about Lake Michigan except that it is vast and beautiful and really looks more like what I imagined an ocean looks like. As an adult, I can now say having completed Michigan and Superior, that while people are just about the same no matter where you go, place and the importance of space is quite different and how people use and treat places and space differ. That the fun part--being about toe see new places with different eyes; of course, via two wheels, which alone, creates a different sensory experience than traveling via car.

So this long Memorial Day weekend seemed like an ideal time to circumnavigate Lake Erie.

So here I am in Amherstburg, Ontario.  It is the sort of place one goes out of their way to reach. I love this small, historic town. From my very first visit decades ago, I knew there was something special about it. Not only was Amherstburg a major stop on the underground railroad for escaping slaves, it is the site of some very important battles on the Canadian side. Here we get the other part of the history of the wars, such as the war of 1812. Amherstburg has continued to have a long and close history with the United states. It is south of Detroit, the only place in North America where you must go south to reach Canada.  

I highly recommend the Bondy House B&B to anyone who visits this area.  The house has a wonderful history and is situated in a peaceful, friendly town that just makes you want to pull up a chair, park your bones and wear out your welcome. I'm here only for one day but as I circle Lake Erie (the Memorial Day trip to myself), I'm planning to meet up again at the Bondy House at the finish. 

Prior to reaching Amherstburg, I made a stop in Monroe, MI to see the River Raisin Battlefield. The Visitor's Center closed before I arrived--even though I called and even though it 4:45 when I arrived--not 5:00 like their signs states for closing time. Oh well...but it's one of those annoying things that makes getting a stamp sometimes out of your control.

I am heading to Point Pelee--for my first Canadian stamp!

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Had a wonderful Friday evening with Carolyn and Merv. They fed me like royalty. Merv did something to salmon that could make him rich.  Corn, mushrooms, brown rice and green beans topped off the meal. 

After being fed an excellent breakfast by Carolyn, I got a late start on Saturday--I am unhurried about leaving my friends. But I do. First I head to Fort Malden, aka Fort Amherstburg to get my first Canadian stamp. Fort Malden is a National Canadian site but the young person manning the desk has no idea of what I'm talking about. He looks all of 18. But he helpfully calls around and is eventually told, "We don't participate in that anymore." He takes it harder than I do. 

We decide that his signature, date, and time should be sufficient proof of my visit. The added his phone number in case someone needed to call him. I also bought a cheap memento as proof of my visit and take pictures of the Fort with the bike visible.

My next hope of a Canadian stamp is Point Pelee National Park, which is in Leamington and situated at the banks of lake Erie. I head there on long, isolated backroads that carry me through small towns. I finally remember to set my GPS to kilometers (duh!) so that I can cease with mentally converting kilometers into miles--that little step made travel so much easier. 

Point Pelee National Park is not a simple journey. It's a fun journey but sits way out and the travel through some of the towns is slow. The young man at Fort Malden called ahead so I knew I'd get a stamp there. Well...they still had the stamp, but not one with a date.  Date is important.  The young ranger looked all of 15 (I can't help but accept getting older as the world is beginning to all look really young).  Oh well...Finally, a more mature woman appeared and interjected herself into the conversation. She explained that Canada used to participate in the Passport Parks program but "unfortunately" no longer. She lamented about that lost and said she wished they would reinstitute it because school children loved collecting, as did she when she was a child. So, I get my first stamp without an official date. I buy another souvenir as proof, and I date the book. The mature ranger told me that "If you get the right person at a national site, they'll know where to get the stamp--but some of the newer personnel won't even know what you are talking about." I know that's true!

The ride through small towns like Wheatley, and many port towns like Port Alma and Port Glasgow, is peaceful and scenic--and, at times, a bit too leisurely. It is also cold as one travels along sections of county road 3, it puts the rider right on the edge of Lake Erie and the breeze stemming from the lake was downright cold! Eventually, I pulled over somewhere near Palmyra to put on my heated jacket, which without the heat on kept me comfortable the rest of the way.  Speaking of the weather, it has been gorgeous, clear blue skies, bright warm and sunny and just enough wind to keep things interesting.

After hours on 3, I began to tire and found "The 401," a high speed highway with a maximum speed of 100km, but few followed that command. I love the crown on the highway signs-it seemed so British (interesting the next major place was called "London.").  I took the 401 to a Service Center, (equivalent to Rest Stops) where I tried to call (with a phone card), someplace to make hotel plans. Using a public phone has been humbling to say the least. It was a long and arduous process. I met a high student there who talked more than my friend Jacob from West Branch, IA. This kid was a sport nut and shared good news with me when he learned I was from the Chicago area. THE BLACKHAWKS WON! he told me.  I tried to show interest and great enthusiasm. I learned that his parents ride HD and have traveled on it to the "states." We talked at least 30 minutes--totally unplanned on my part; yet, I think I needed that break as I hadn't taken one the whole day.  It was getting late, near 7 and the backroads will be pitch black within a couple of hours. I decide to stay on the 401 (although the lights seem rather lacking on this too) and find a hotel. Having lost my BlackBerry the day befor I left (which has been found since). Lacking easy phone accesschas made this trip far more challenging than is my desire.

I bought a "pay as you go phone" before I left IL only to learn that it doesn't work in Canada. More on this later--I don't want to start the day on a bad note. But the good news is my BlackBerry will be waiting for me when I return home. Yay!!

I'm heading out now and plan to reach Cleveland or somewhere near before the end of the riding day.  My lovely SV got lots of attention wherever I rode--it's a great looking bike IMHO! But Jesse Owens is a looker. The conversations never stop about the bike, what it is, how it rides, where am I going and why?, etc. At a gas station, I ran into another woman rider on a BMW.  I waved to her. She walked up to me and said, "We're anonmalies, aren't we?" I agreed and we chatted very briefly about riding and our bikes. One meets the most interesting people when traveling on two wheels. When traveling alone in a car I can count on one hand--with multiple fingers left over--the number of people who come up and start a conversation. Two wheels brings out the talk in folks, the vehicle becomes an instrument of and for communication across many lines.

Well, I'm off two-wheeling it.

Bruised, battered and beaten to Nebraska!

By mid week I’m looking at the maps and weather channel for a place to go, especially a destination that will also have a stamp or two to collect. This time, the west looked best. What made that sweeter was the chance to see my friend Claye would also be heading in that direction.

Saturday’s ride.

I was on the road by 6:30 a.m. Destination: Omaha, Nebraska. Round trip would mean nearly 1000 miles on the OD, which was a nice bonus. I needed to reach 12,000 miles ASAP because my plans to circle Lake Erie were only two weeks away and the bike needed its check up.

I think it was joy at being on the road that made me ignore the wind. You’d think I’d learn from the St. Louis trip. I wouldn’t know until 11pm Saturday night that the winds were 32mph, including wind gusts of the same velocity. Traveling along I-88 West, a road in dire need of some patching, I eventually noticed the snarling winds. The winds swirled the cool air with such force that my helmet kept being whipped back or snatched to the side. Eventually, my neck hurt from trying to keep my head and neck attached to my body.

Two hours into the trip and I was really looking forward to West Branch, IA where President Herbert Hoover’s childhood home site stands. Getting a stamp there plus the one in Effigy Mounds, Harper Ferry, IA, would complete my Iowa stamping. West Branch is near Iowa City, a town I always enjoy. Interstate 80, like I-88 was tough going too. The winds were far stronger than any I had ever encountered. I felt my spine contort to a “S” shape as I tried to keep Jesse under control and in its own lane. That sideways feeling, that feeling of being at a 45 degree angle got old fast. I stayed in the right lane but many times, too many to recall, I was pushed into the left lane. This happened often in curves where I had to lean a little. Each time it happened I gasped for air. I did not like this at all.

West Branch was a welcomed stop. When I pulled into the lot for the Hoover Museum, I saw a skinny kid who looked like a white version of Steve Urkel. I noticed first his large glasses and that something was clipped to his belt. I found a parking place and as I turned off the bike, I noticed that the kid (whom I learned was really a young adult) was running in my direction.

I sized him up and immediately thought I could take him easily if I had to. But he was smiling. When he got to me he started talking a mile a second, pointing to my bike. I tried to read his goofy expression. “I’ve only seen one bike like this on the road—I want one—either that or a Honda VFR.” He went on to talk about the day he visited Gina’s BMW in Iowa City and checked out the bike. “I saving for one now. First I’m going to get my license. I’m an EMT.”

His name is Jacob; it should be Chatterbox.

I remained seated on the bike as I watched, listen to, and talked to this fireball. His mother isn’t keen on the idea of him getting a motorcycle but his dad is cool. Jacob has traveled extensively throughout the US because his father is a Ranger; in fact, he’s the Ranger for the Herbert Hoover site.

Before heading inside the Visitor’s Center, Jacob gave me a run down of the motorcycle accidents he’s seen and helped, the fires he’s helped put out, and the evils of riding a Hayabusa and the importance of riding gear.

When I dismounted the bike, I asked Jacob if he wanted to sit on it. I barely finished the offer before Jacob was on the bike, grinning like it was Christmas Day. I think Jacob can forget about that Honda. He seemed in love!

Jacob told me to take Main Street into Iowa City. It turns into Herbert Hoover highway. It is a fun road with rolling hills, farms, and some nice twisties. It is a one lane road into Iowa City that made me forget about the wind and my now aching left shoulder and neck. I lunched in Iowa City and came close to thinking I should get a room there stay overnight. But I wanted to see Claye and hear about her travels.

I forged on and very soon regretted it. I began thinking of my trip in 50 and 75 miles blocks. If things didn’t improve in 50 miles, I would end the trip. At each point, I stopped and took a break, frequent breaks, which I think helped relieve my aches. Finally, Des Moines, IA became the point at which I would get a room and call it quits. Getting there was not fun, I will admit to that. It’s difficult to admit about myself that I have a hard time letting some things go.

Claye and I left messages for each other. My messages whinned about how battered and beaten I was feeling, and how I doubted if I’d make it to Nebraska.
I didn’t like leaving such messages but giving voice to my situation was cleansing in a way. I had come pretty far to give up. While I didn’t feel the riding was dangerous, I felt I was aggravating the collar bone and my back of previously cracked ribs. The whole area felt hot.

I-80 does a strange thing near Des Moines. It drops and heads a bit southerly. The winds were still strong but considerably less aggressive. So I forged on. I was beginning to feel that Nebraska was within reach if the winds stayed right where they were in Des Moines. This wasn’t meant to be. They stirred up but I stopped at every rest stop and took a five minute break. My goal now was to reach Nebraska before nightfall. The GPS estimated my arrival at around 8:47pm—assuming I didn’t keep piling on the stops.

I-80 takes a deeper southerly shift around Neola, IA and from there, it was an easier journey. I pulled into the Sleep Inn that Claye reserved. I arrived before nightfall, bruised, battered and beaten. I was hungry too but felt too exhausted to walk across the street to get food. That night, Claye and I stayed up and talked and made plans for Sunday’s ride to IL. I munched on rice crackers, GORP, and the joy of having made it to see my friend.

Sunday's ride.

Claye was in definite need of new tires (her more than month long trip put on over 8000 miles) but our plans to ride together back to IL so that she could get new tires, fell through. We would go our own way. Claye had been on the road at least a month and beginning to feel the call for home. First, she had to reach Cleveland, where she would have new Tourances put on her BMW F650GS. Thus, there was no need for her to hit the road as early as I wanted to depart. Oh, and the two queen bed suite that we had planned to share? Turns out that the hotel made an error that involved smoking rooms and we were upgraded to two single, nonsmoking rooms. Thanks, Claye!

In the morning, I texted my goodbye to Claye, who kindly dressed and met me in the lobby to say hers. I was on the road by 6:30 am. No wind to speak of. The Weather Channel said the winds would be 6mph—baby stuff! The sky was clear and the temps were in the 40s. I tuned on the heated jacket to “Low” and settled in for a nice ride.

I stopped only for gas and visits to the bathroom. I rode straight through to IL. Somewhere near Geneseo I acknowledged my hunger and stopped for a hour long lunch. On so many levels it was refreshing. My shoulder ached but because I didn’t wrestle the wind, I didn’t aggravate it further. I was fine. I was in the house by 5:15pm. While Sunday’s ride didn’t quite make up for Saturday, it came close.

Was it all worth one stamp? Probably not. But it was great seeing Claye. And really, Saturday made me appreciate Sunday. Isn’t there some adage about if you embrace the light, you also must accept the dark? The ying-yang of life, perhaps?

Ride total: 994 miles