The annual fall/winter winds and rain have descended on Washington for the foreseeable future. It's been wet and windy for a couple of weeks now, but every so often we get a clear day that makes up for the stretches of dreary ones that we get this time of year. Earlier this week I had to head over across the Sound to Port Orchard for a lunch meeting with the editor of QuickThrottle where I'm writing that monthly column. The nice thing about such a trip is it involves taking the ferry across the Sound. On a sunny day with smooth water, there is nothing like it. I was aboard the Ferry M/V Issaquah, heading west past Vashon Island to Southworth. There is nothing like a ferry ride in the sun to lift one's spirits make you forget about life's bullshit -- even if it's not on a motorcycle.
In a way it's very similar to being out on the bike. Alone with ones thoughts, the sun on your face, the wind blowing through your hair (or in my case, lack of it), the smell of the fresh air, and the freedom of movement. This time of year when it's tough to get out on the bike, it's probably the next best thing. An 11am sailing is pretty empty too -- maybe a dozen cars and people. It was a tad chilly, but I spent most of the 30 minute crossing standing in the bow arms sheltered from the wind. The blue skies and sun were a welcome respite from the four days of rain and wind we'd had up to that point.

As it turns out this was the last nice day this week as well. The next day it turned rainy and windy again. I had to go in for dental implant surgery this week where they drilled a hole in my jaw to put in a post for an implant that will go in next year. The little post looked like a screw from some sort of Ikea furniture, and the dentist laughed when I asked him if he had the little alan wrench to tighten it. Since then I've been sitting on the couch with ice packs and watching movies when I'm lucid enough between the pain pills -- and dreaming of sailing away or riding off into the sun.

As a general rule of thumb, bikers are some of the nicest and most giving people in the whole world.  We will use any excuse to get together for a ride, and more often than not we are riding for a charity or to raise funds for someone in the community who has fallen on hard times or for a fellow biker who is injured, or to honor the passing of someone.  So why is it that so many people are afraid of bikers.  Is it the noise from the bike?  Is it the black leather which makes everyone look menacing?  The long hair? (or lack of it in my case).  Is it the "devil may care" attitude, or the often obnoxious and semi-obscene (or obscene) patches we sometimes sew on our leathers?  All of the above? 

I am honored to be able to write a monthly column for a local biker magazine called Quick Throttle.  They use a picture based on the one here on this LJ post as the one over my column.  It has stirred some reaction to say the least -- not for what I'd like to say is my provocative writing, but for the damn picture!  My mother sent an email yesterday that said:  "We don't recognize that tough-looking biker in the picture though. Who is that?"  My friend Madelon said "That picture is sure scary and if I didn't know you I'd be scared to death, but I know the real you..."  My friend CJ said "Loved reading your column.  I giggled at some of it... You're so butch, you look so rugged and burly.  But I won't tell anyone you're just a big pile of goo inside."  Goo?  A pile of goo inside?  Me?  Now my editor at Quick Throttle chose that picture based on his staff's reaction that it was the "perfect biker picture".  Judge for yourself:  www.quickthrottle.com/Editions/NW/2009/nov09/roadsigns.html   Me, I think I look like the Wizard of Oz hovering over Dorothy and Toto, all that is lacking are the flames along the side of my head.  (Only a big tough ass gay biker can make a reference like that and get away with it.) Maybe I'm just a big softy.  Well every biker I know is like that!  And it's not a front!

Case in point.  Two days ago there was a tragic drive-by shooting where a Seattle Police Officer was shot and killed.  Late last night I got an email from someone in my Harley Owners Group chapter asking if we could put together a ride to the memorial where the officer was shot.  I was somewhat skeptical given the timing and weather, but I put together a ride and sent it out to the membership.  To my surprise we had 18 bikes show up.  One of our members is a chaplain and officer with the Seattle PD and he arranged to meet us there and give us a secure parking area.  Another member picked up some flowers and we rode in formation the 15 miles from the Dealership to the site.  When we got there, 18 leather clad, tough as nails, long in the teeth, mean-ass looking bikers all stood for a moment of silent prayer and reflection while our chaplain placed the flowers.  Many were wiping tears, and we all stood in reverence and personal thought for nearly a half-hour.
We also passed the boot around and set up a donation jar at the dealership and will make a contribution to the widow and her young children.  On Friday I expect a number of chapter members to line the funeral procession route in the rain, on their bikes, to salute the fallen officer and to honor all those who put themselves in harms way to protect us.  It's what bikers do.  Yeah, maybe I do look like the scary wizard the troop from Munchkinland first encounter in the Emerald City -- but you all remember how it turns out once Toto pulls back the curtain.  Today the curtain was pulled back again as we rode to the memorial.  We may look like tough bastards -- but as my friend CJ said, we are all just "a plie of goo inside."

Here we are, the first of November already.  Another year drawing to a close.  The leaves are changing and falling, the air is crisp and cold with the hint of woodsmoke.  Autumn is full of projects, both around the house and in the garage with the bikes -- getting ready for a winter of sporadic riding.   The last couple of weekends have been spent doing a combination of tinkering on the bikes and getting out and riding a few miles when the sun is shining before the endless winter rains appear. 

I'm happy to say the project to turn the Rocker into a "semi-custom" chopper is virtually done, thanks to the crew at Downtown Harley-Davidson in Renton who installed a Heartland Chopper kit on her. (More details/pics at: .grgardner.livejournal.com/34944.html )  We cut the fender back, relocated the license plate to the side and lowered it a bit.  She's a damn pretty bike now, one that rides like a rigid hard-tail and requires some careful steering around bumps and potholes for fear of jarring out my dental work.  But if the goal was to illicit stares from folks, it was accomplished.  She turns heads everywhere we go, and I had one guy jaywalk across traffic while I was stopped at an intersection so he could walk around it and say "Day-amn that's a hot bike..." I have to agree.
Next up was a few parts for the Nightster -- my little zippy bike that mainly goes with me to Olympia when I'm living down there and need to escape for a ride.  After the Legislative session is over I bring it back and it's a great little bike to go cruising around on short rides and to the gym and whatnot.  I decided to dress it up a bit by putting on some new black heat shields, and on both the Rocker and this bike, I installed white/blue halogen headlights for greater visibility both in the day and at night.  You will note that the plate is held on with four blue reflector screws.  Blue reflectors are quite hard to find and I got a box of them on E-Bay.  Fortunately I bought extra since when I first put them on one vibrated off.  I decided to set them on using Red LocTite which is all I had on hand.  For those of you who know, you use Red LocTite when putting on screws that you do not want to come off or that you can use a torque wrench on.  I'll be damned if I could get the screws off and I recalled that I was told that you could heat up Red LocTite and it would come off.  So gathering up my trusty butane torch (which also works well when making Cream Brule but I digress), I proceeded to attempt to melt the Red LocTite and instead melted the reflectors and the old license plate.  Nonetheless I eventually got it off and replaced it with the custom plate you see here -- using Blue LocTite which isn't quite as strong when I put the new reflectors on.

So now it was time to reward myself with a nice fall ride.  I decided I'd take the Rocker and headed out for a nice loop around King County, admiring the blue sky and fall leaves, wishing summer weren't ending and I'd have to limit my riding.  No more long road trips and only an occasional ride on those rare Saturday or Sunday's in November when the sun shines.  And as always, riding clears my head and allows me to think.  Think about a lot of things.  Where my career is going, where my life is going, what direction should I take with both.  I think about ideas for the column I'm writing now for Quick Throttle magazine -- a free monthly biker publication available in motorcycle shops and biker bars.  (You can read my November column here: www.quickthrottle.com/Editions/NW/2009/nov09/roadsigns.html ).  And songs come flooding back into my head from my many years as a radio DJ.  One in particular kind of summed up much of my life this past year -- Bobby Goldsboro's "Autumn of My Life.  However,  I can't say I'm "content" in the Autumn of My LIfe -- far from it.  But it does seem to fit my life as songs often do. 

While I've lost two other dogs in the past, the sadness I'm feeling over Abbey has been far greater.  I don't know why -- perhaps it's because it came so suddenly and without warning.  It's hard to even take comfort in the fact it happened so quickly and she didn't suffer.  As my Mother said, "it's how I would want to go", but damn it I don't want her gone. Zak and Osita, the other two dogs I've lost were both old, very sick, and had long full lives before dying of cancer or old age.  I knew it was coming, and in many ways it was a blessing for them.   But that was 10 years ago and in the years since I've forgotten the pain.  I've not forgotten them -- I still have their ashes and their collars, and photos.  But the pain has dulled.  It's all come back again since Friday.

Also in those days we didn't have passwords for everything on earth.  Abbey or a variation thereof is incorporated into many of my online passwords so as I surf online these days I'm constantly typing her name.  It's hard to do when you are doing it through watery eyes.  She always sat under my desk when I was home working or on the computer and I keep waiting to feel her nose me for a scratch or some attention.Yesterday was very hard.  I got up and she wasn't there.  I let Lucy outside and went to fill up their water and food bowls and put food in Abbey's dish out of habit.  Then when I went to call Lucy back I hollered "Girls!" as if there were still two of them and I waited for her to bound up the deck stairs.  That big silly sweetheart was such a part of my life its going to be a while for that hole to fill.  It was so quiet around the house yesterday I kept thinking I'd go up and find the closet door shut and I'd open it and she'd sheepishly come out and I'd say "Silly Abbey.."    No more...no more.

The amount of warmth and outpouring of support and shared grief from friends and family, both near and online, over Abbey's passing on Friday has been wonderful.  These days when one often feels "disconnected" from those around us because of this electronic age, when one really needs it, that connection comes back.  The friends on here, on Facebook, and elsewhere who have offered support and words of comfort have been very wonderful.  I can't say enough about what some of these friends have said or done.  It's made these past two days a bit easier, and I want to share two of them here. 

This first one a friend of Tony's posted on his Facebook page:

Rainbow Bridge Poem

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

Author unknown

And my friend Jack in my motorcycle club sent me this video/song clip:



Thanks to all my friends for being there.  It makes this a bit more bearable.

Tony always said that Abbey was "Daddy's girl"...that she bonded to me more than anyone else.  But it was Tony that rescued her and brought her home nine years ago this month.  He had spotted this small black and white puppy, with an oversized flea collar on her, dodging cars in the parking lot of Top Foods in Auburn, WA where he managed the BECU branch.  He snared her and took her into his office where she spent the day sleeping under his desk.  He called me on the way home to tell me he was bringing a surprise.   Little did I know that this sweet, shy, skittish little puppy was the surprise.   We'd come back from Scotland earlier that year and I loved the old Abbey ruins -- one of my favorite was "Sweetheart Abbey" and I named her for that.  And Abbey was my sweetheart -- a great big sweetheart, though at the time she was tiny.  We never found out exactly what she was -- part Border Collie, part something else, maybe Springer, maybe Pit-Bull, maybe all of it.  She had Springer spots, but a Pit-Bull mouth, and Border Collie instincts and smarts.

When he drove up and I saw her I immediately fell in love.  At the time I didn't want another dog.  We'd just lost Zak, my little terrier that I'd had since graduate school, and before that Osita, my other little girl.  And although we also had Lucy, I didn't think I wanted two dogs again.  But here she was. And she was small.  The vet said too small to be on her own almost.  At the time she could fit in the bib of Tony's overalls.  She later grew to be over 70 pounds.  She and Lucy became a pair -- almost like an old Lesbian couple.  Abbey would sit and clean out Lucy's ears (as Cockers are prone to ear infection), and she'd brood over Lucy.  We called them"the girls", as they were inseparable. 

Lucy, although a quarter of Abbey's size is the boss.  She could boss Abbey around most of the time, but sometimes Abbey would just ignore her and walk right over her.  They'd play tug of war and Abbey would drag Lucy around by their rope and we'd laugh.  She always was shy and skittish around strangers -- she'd bark and hide behind me and peak out around them and bark again.  But her tail would wag and she'd eventually warm up to whomever was there.  We had a professional trainer work with her for a while, and I'd put her in her "safe" spot -- between my knees so I could reach down and pet her when people would come over and until she got used to them, but she remained skittish all her life.

After Tony and I separated she and Lucy would alternate between my house and his.  I'd be working in my office and she'd come in to check on me, putting her big paw on my shoulder and spinning my chair around so I'd face her and she'd insist on being petted or let out to see if Aunt Kim was around.  She usually slept with me on my bed, taking up the side where Tony used to sleep -- her 70 pounds holding the covers down, and eventually she'd sprawl out and take up most of the bed.  When she was ready to get up in the morning she'd stand over my head and make a soft "woof" sound until I'd wake up and see this. She's been here since Monday and everything was fine. She was as full of energy as ever, running around the yard and bounding up the deck stairs.  Demanding to go outside whenever she heard the neighbor "Aunt Kim" on her deck who would always give her a doggie treat.  She was the smartest dog I've ever had.  She knew how to open up her kennel door, and the doggie day-care people said she was always herding the other dogs into a pen, shutting a gate and locking them in an area so she and Lucy could have run of the play space.  And she was forever going into open rooms, looking behind the door and locking herself in whatever space she was in.  It would get quiet around the house and I'd go looking for her and sure enough she'd locked herself in the closet for the umpteenth time.  She'd look sheepish and run out when I found her and called her "silly Abbey.."

I got home tonite and she met me in the laundry room as always and turned to go outside.  I let her out and Lucy came back first so I stuck my head out and called her.  She slowly came up the stairs and then stood in the living room with her head bowed and breathing heavily.  I knew something was wrong.  She collapsed on the floor and wouldn't move.  I called Tony who came over and we rushed her to the Emergency Vet.  On the way over she lay on the back seat of his truck and panted heavily and wouldn't move.  We had to get a stretcher to bring her in and the vets hustled her to the back and made us wait out front.  About a half hour later they came out and told us to go back.  She was laying on the floor and the vet said she was dying.  She had an ultrasound showing her heart -- enlarged and beating way too fast.  The vet said the sac around her heart was filled with blood -- most likely from the a burst cancerous tumor.  She said nothing could be done and there was no way to know or prevent it.  We knelt down and just then her heart gave out.  She went quickly and quietly and in no pain.  We cried and held our little girl for a while before heading back home.  It was so strange to arrive with her and less than an hour later leave without her.  Another loss in a year that has been too full of them.

For nine years she's been a constant in our lives -- even after Tony and I separated.  She's my little girl.  I have her collar on my desk as I write this.  I miss her.  She had a happy and wonderful life.  She was rescued and I think she knew it and was always grateful.  She loved and protected us -- ever wary of strangers.  Her life was too short -- as every life is.  Goodbye my Great Big Sweetheart.  You will live forever in my heart.

More pictures of Abbey in this Facebook Photo Album:  www.facebook.com/photo.php

One of the joys -- as well as one of the sorrows --  of the open road is seeing what's along the highway.  The road can be melancholy at times.  The abandoned homestead, the ruined closed old gas station, the dying small town.  And the crosses by the side of the highway.  In Montana particularly there are a large number of crosses -- put up by the American Legion -- to mark where there has been a highway fatality.  Just a cross -- no words, no explanation.  I remember when Tony and I first rode across Montana with the Seattle Mens Chorus in 2007 I noticed how many there were, and again when we road Corner to Corner in 2008.  You get to wondering about them -- what happened, who it was.I'm going to cheat a bit now because, as in many cases, I ran across a song that does it better than I can, and because I'm not feeling all that creative at this moment.  I was listening to the folk music channel on XM the other day when this song came on.  It's called "Mile 416", by Jeff Daniels, on his "Grandfathers Hat" CD (available on I-tunes).  When I first heard the song I was immediately taken back to the roads in Montana with the crosses.  I'm envious of people with this kind of talent. He wrote this while driving US-2 back from Vancouver to Michigan.  

Somewhere in Eastern Montana, out out where the cross winds blow.
Out where the Lord understands you, out where nobody knows.
Along the side of the highway, by a turn in the road.
I saw some flowers on a small white cross.
I saw where God called you home.
Mile 416.
I can hear the sirens screaming down the road.
I can see the tow truck's flashing lights.

“I’ll take the backroads home through the open country side.  Letting things slip by, in drawn out time.  I’ll take the long way home on the backroads of this life, taking time to see what goes by.”

 Those lyrics come from a song by the late folk singer Kate Wolf called “Backroads”, which is something of a theme of my life.

 I had picked up the bike from the new location of Downtown Harley-Davidson in Renton after some service work a week or so ago.  Their new location is right along a busy freeway and in the middle of “Big Box” land with lots of large stores, so traffic is always a bear.  It was a nice, sunny, late summer afternoon and I had no reason to get home quickly which means a perfect time for a lazy afternoon ride.  Yeah, I could have hopped on the Valley Freeway or I-405, but I didn’t.  I was reminded of a line that Tony once used when we would go skiing:  “Why take a blue run when there is a perfectly fine green run that goes to the same place.”  Now in skiing, a green run signifies an easy meandering route, and a blue run, a steeper more challenging route.  Tony likes to ski like I like to ride – meandering and enjoying it rather than racing at high speed.  And just like motorcycling, skiing gives me that same sense of freedom to go where I want to when I want to under my control.

So as I meandered on some back roads from the dealership towards home in West Seattle – and yes there are some nice quiet roads that make you forget you are in the sprawling urban environment between Renton and Seattle -- I looked for and took the perfectly fine “green” runs home rather than the parallel “blue runs” otherwise known as arterials and freeways.    And no, I’m not telling you where they are, but I’ll take you on them if you want to go riding with me.

 It truly is amazing what a backroad can do to your mental state as well as your blood pressure, even in the middle of the city.  As Kate sings in her song “a backroad is so easy it just rambles on and on, take it or leave it, as it rolls a long.  Drifts through things it cannot change and doesn’t even try…”

 I estimate it took me about ninety minutes to meander back home to West Seattle on those backroads, and the normal 16 miles turned into about 60, but I didn’t care.  I needed that time in the sun on the backroads to blank my mind and let it drift.  And unlike ski runs, on maps backroads tend to be marked in blue – hence the title of William Least Heat Moon’s book “Blue Highways” where he rides the backroads across this country in an old van.  When given a choice I’ll always take the blue highway -- the backroad.  Because as Kate sang: 

 

Any place your bound, you’ll get there some day.  You’re the one who chooses what you’ll see along the way.  And when the heartaches seem too much for you to bear, there’s a backroad winding everywhere.   And the shortest road ain’t always the best – sometimes let a backroad take you home.”

I decided to take a "me" day today and not do any work.  Last week I heard from my good friend and former colleague Rich, who like me, went through a divorce and major work changes last year, and as a result, bought a motorcycle and started riding.  You might recall Rich was in a little group ride of mine we called "Wild Hogs Redux" last July  (you can read the adventure here: grgardner.livejournal.com/2008/07/11/ .)  Well Rich and I decided to head out to Fall City to a roadhouse for lunch and to spend some time catching up and riding the roads of the Snoqualmie Valley.  When we chatted on the phone this morning he said it was "sunny" up in Issaquah where he was, while I said it was a bit cloudy here in West Seattle.  By the time I got the 20 miles to Issaquah it was "misting", so when Rich pulled up to the Tully's where we were to meet up, I said "by 'Sunny' you mean it wasn't raining right?"  He laughed and we headed out across the Samammish Plateau.  We spent a good ninety minutes over a good tax deductible lunch and headed out for a ride down WA-203.  During lunch I got word from Downtown Harley that the conversion parts to my Rocker were in and ready to be mocked up and I should go take a look.  I invited Rich but he had to take off to pick up his daughter, so I waved him off as he turned North and I turned Southeast towards Renton.

Now the "conversion" to the Rocker I'm working on is an interesting project.  The Rocker is my "Crimson Red Sunglow" Harley  "sort of" chopper.  It's a gorgeous bike as is, but I've been wanting to customize it a bit more than I already have and make it more of a showy "real" chopper.  When a turn-signal light went out and the module had to be replaced, it opened the door to do some other modifications since the entire rear fender had to come off to fix the signals.  So, much as how fixing the shower in the house lead to a kitchen remodel, which lead to a living room rebuild, which lead to a new garage, all of which was the result of my constantly saying:  "as long as the contractor is here lets..."  A simple turn signal replacement now has lead me to say:  "as long as we have it on the lift and torn apart..." 

This is how the bike looked before we started this project:As you can see, the rear fender wraps around the top of the tire, the license plate is on the fender, and the seat "floats" in the air over the fender.  What I want to do is lower the seat to meet the fender, chop the fender back, and move the license plate to a side mount on the left side.  And while I've been dreaming of doing this, it took the need to replace the turn signal module, which, in typical complex fashion, required removing the entire fender to do, to start the ball rolling.  Since this was warranty work, I figured I'd save a couple of hundred dollars in labor charges by using this opportunity to replace the fender with the chopped version.  After all, "as long as it's on the lift..."

But just like a home remodeling project, the Rocker rebuild has snowballed way beyond what I envisioned when I started.  "As long as you have it on the lift...." is something that's becoming part of my day-to-day vocabulary.   And just like a remodeling project, there have been "part" issues.  The company building the fender "lost" the first order, setting us back two weeks.  When they finally shipped the fender, they "forgot" the license plate mount.  However, since the plate mount isn't critical, the crew at DHD and I decided to proceed with the mock-up test fitting of the fender parts.  And like a remodel project, it didn't fit right the first time either, nor did it look quite right.  "As long as we have it on the lift...'

Last night was a gorgeous evening - clear, sunny, fairly warm.  I met up with Tony for dinner down on Alki, I needed his help with a project.  At the last moment I decided to ride the bike.  After dinner as the sun started to set and the moon started to ride we headed home.  He snapped this pic on his I-Phone as we were riding home.  I think it captures what riding in the late summer evening is all about -- the sense of motion on the bike, the sky at dusk with the moon rising -- the colors of the evening.  Just thought I'd post it -- it doesn't need any words.

I've often spoke about the imagery and connection that I have with highway signs. I love the fact that I can be on a road 3,000 miles away from where I want to be and know that if I follow the numbers, I'll get there. I love how they are both literal and metaphorical guide posts to a destination. I think I first realized this when I was attending Graduate School at Arizona State in Tempe, AZ. The main street through Tempe is Mill Avenue, which becomes Apache Trail as it curves around campus. At the time it was also US Highway 89. Back home in Salt Lake City, the main drag through town is State Street -- also US-89. I think I first made the connection in an essay I wrote in Graduate School describing a lonely night walk I took to sort out a problem -- the kind of thing I do now from the seat of a motorcycle: "He found himself walking down the main street of the town -- the same highway that was the main street back in his own hometown. He always felt a sense of sureness and home whenever he saw the highway number sign -- U.S 89 -- for he knew that this very same road wound through the mountains to the familiar town he had grown up in, and he knew that if he only walked long enough along that road, he could find himself in his past. Then he recalled -- you can really never go home again."

When Tony and I bought this house back in 1997, the major reason we did so was the forest in the back yard.  The house abuts Fauntleroy Park which is an urban forest in the middle of Seattle.  However, it looks and feels like the home sits in a secluded woodland with no sign or hint that they city is a few blocks away.  Dominating the back yard was a huge Hemlock tree that towered into the sky.  The previous owners of the house never once trimmed the tree, and when we bought the house the limbs were literally hanging over the small yard and smacking the balcony/patio and it looked like this.Shortly after that we had a professional logger come in and trim up the lower branches, and boy did it ever open up the forest view and made the yard even more spectacular.  We were able to come across a "Ski Area Boundary" sign from Whistler and nailed it to the tree -- which was ironically right on the property line and so the sign was more than appropriate.That tree has stood there for Lord knows how long, watching seasons come and go, and has been a silent sentinel in the forest, shading the back yard and towering above the house.   Being a Hemlock it produced millions of tiny pine cones each year too, that each fall would rain down on the deck and yard and be a pain to rake up, but I didn't really mind.

Well this year, it started raining yellow needles in the spring -- and it just didn't stop.  When I got back from Sturgis a couple of weeks ago, I looked up and what few needles were left were turning yellow and my neighbors Madelon and Mildred two doors up said that from their balcony the tree looked quite dead. I went up for a look and unfortunately had to agree.
It was a very sad morning -- I hated to see that ancient giant go.  Diego, my young neighbor and I tried to count the rings on a slice the loggers left for us and we got up to 90 before we had to give up because the rings were too small -- but I bet it was over 110 years old.  One of my lobbying friends and colleagues who often playfully razzes and chides me for being a bit on the left side of the political spectrum posted on my Facebook page when I said that I was sad the loggers were taking out the tree.  He asked "Did you hug and kiss it goodbye.  It probably has feelings like the dead fish being flung at the Pike Place Market."     He missed the point though, and the point of my comment.  The tree itself wasn't sad -- it was me -- losing that tree left a gaping hole in my forest, which like a snaggle toothed hag, looks funny.  I'd just as soon take the wood and burn it in the fireplace if I had a wood burning one, it would last 10 years at least -- or convert the Hummer to wood burning so as to contribute further to global warming to prevent a repeat of last winter.  No, I doubt the tree was sad, but I was, and I still am.  And in a way it's almost a metaphor for my life this past year.  Like that tree, a part of me died and needs to be taken out so new life can flourish.  And like that tree, it will take some time to get used to it, but eventually the gap in the forest will fill in.  And I can enjoy the memories and the remnants that are left.  Plus the loggers left my sign on the stump! 

Somewhere in the Bitterroot Mountains of Montana,  West of the semi-ghost town of Paradise,  on my way home from Sturgis two weeks ago, the bike and I rolled over the 40,000 mile mark.   I didn’t actually see when it rolled over, I was too busy enjoying the road and the scenery, and I couldn’t have stopped to take a picture anyway as the road had no place to pull over.  It would have been an interesting moment though – me and the bike along the side of the highway on the banks of the Clark Fork River across from the old Northern Pacific Railroad mainline through Montana. 

 

I bought her four years ago this October, brand new from Destination Harley Davidson in Silverdale, WA.  She’s a 2006 Harley-Davidson FXDBI Street Bob, in black denim paint.  I paid $17,565.35.  Together we’ve gone corner to corner -- Key West to Cape Flattery -- and border to border together.  When I look at the map in the garage with all the big trips marked on it – both solo and with Tony – I’m amazed to see the ground that we’ve covered.  There’s a one solitary line from Key West up through the Southeast and across the country, and then a virtual spaghetti bowl of rides in the West. 

We’ve ridden through rain and snow -- blazing hot sun and fresh mountain air.  We’ve enjoyed the sunrise and dawn after a rain, and chasing our shadow riding East at sunset.  She’s only broken down on me once too – when the electrical system got some gremlin’s in it outside of Huron, South Dakota last year and she had to be towed to Pierre, SD for repairs.  She’s gone down twice – once with me aboard as I avoided a left turning min-van with an oblivious woman who couldn’t see through her Muslim veil in Vancouver BC.  And once when Tony slid on some rain-slick pavement on 35^th Ave near our house. The latter accident caused a lot of damage, but the good folks at Downtown Harley who maintain her got her back and good as new in a few weeks.

  

With that many miles, the bike becomes a part of you – an extension of my body – seemingly effortlessly responding to my touch. I twist my wrist and she goes faster. I press left and she glides that direction.  Stretch out on the highway pegs and breathe the cool mountain air and we both want to keep going forever.

Lately she’s been my only traveling companion when the road stretched out in front of me for miles.  She’s been the table where I’ve dined on t-bone steak and cheap red wine.  Her tank is the desk where I’ve made notes, or written postcards back home, and spread out a roadmap looking for a back road from here to anywhere.  Her backrest has been the pillow where I’ve rested from a day on the road.  Her bags have carried my clothes and belongings from town to town as I’ve traveled. She’s listened to me cry over my late father as I drove through central Utah, and been there as I think of the ones I love and miss as the miles rolled away beneath us. Her handlebars have framed the Islands of the Florida Keys, the Mackinac bridge between Lake Huron and Michigan, the Grand Tetons, Old Faithful, the Grand Canyon, the Columbia River, Mount Rainier, the shore of the Pacific, big cities, small towns, wheat fields, corn fields, dusty desert, lush forests,  and more than 40,000 miles of road.

When I got back from Sturgis I took her in for a major service.  Kevin, the Service Manager at Downtown Harley told me that she’s got at least another 100,000 miles in her if I keep her well maintained like I have.  She got really dirty on the ride home, so I had them give her complete detailing too, and Kevin said she’d be sold before noon if I put it out on the show-room floor.  "No way in hell!" I said, "no way in hell."    When I die, just bury me with this bike by my side -- or better yet, give her to someone who she can carry down that endless road.

I guess the best way to describe Sturgis and the Bike Week is that it is like Spring Break in Florida for middle-aged folks.  Its a huge excuse for people to let their hair -- for those that have it --  (and their clothes) down, drink, party, listen to loud music, and ride around on motorcycles for a week.  It's a chance for respectable 40 to 60 year-olds to party like they were in college, for men to ogle women in a town and a culture that women's liberation bypassed.  Tonite will be my last night here, I'll leave in the morning and make my way back to Seattle.  I've been on my own for a couple of days -- Andre had to get back to Seattle after he discovered he was going to be a dad after insemnating a lesbian friend using the turkey-baster method.  And not only was he happy about that, the Rapid City Journal took his picture as he was lounging on his bike on Main Street and named him "Biker Dude of the Day" on Sunday.  I've enjoyed riding and hanging out and over the couse of the last few days I've made some notes and some random observations and thoughts to describe what really can't be described. 
There are more motorcycles here than you can imagine.  They are lined up on Main street four deep.  Single rows on the curb, double rows down the center.  Cars are not allowed.  At times it feels like the entire output of the Harley-Davidson factory is on the streets and roads here.  It makes for a constant rumble in the background, not unlike living next to a railroad yard and the rumble of the idling locomotives, which it reminded me of (and caused me to look out the window often thinking a train on the Dakota, Minnesota and Eastern which runs behind the hotel was going by.)  There is a four-way stop sign in front of my hotel, which not only causes a backup, but adds to the rumble as folks wait their turn.  A four way stop here is pretty meaningless anyway as any biker worth their salt will be able to get through it without "stopping" or putting their feet down, even if it means sort of cheating.  The four-ways here are akin to Italian traffic circles where it's everyone for themselves.  And in addition to people watching, there is some "pet" watching as well.  I've seen a number of dogs here -- each with their own motorcycle vest, and sometimes riding with their people, but when I went riding with some friends yesterday, one chap took the cake.  His dog rode on the tank with him -- wearing his doggie goggles, and vest, and enjoying what had to be the ultimate "head out the window" rush -- even at 70mph down I-90.  The dog rode up from Arkansas that way too.  There is no way I could see Lucy and Abby doing that, as fun as it might be.  Lucy would insist on laying in my lap, and Tony says Abbey could ride "bitch" (back seat) with her paws on my shoulders.  Maybe if we gave her enough doggie prozac yes.
Like I said earlier, the Black Hills are a beautiful area, and the roads are truly fun to ride on the motorcycle.  It is part of the alure of Sturgis Bike Week.  The rides up from Sturgis to Deadwood, Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse, and out to Devil's Tower are gorgeous and curvy and made it seems for a motorcycle.  The only drawback is that all of these places charge you bucks to get in, and because motorcycles can kind of sqeeze into places, they take great pain to make sure you HAVE to go through and pay.  Well, I refused to do so.  Despite the orange cones and "no stoping or standing" signs, we all did it anyway.  They can't chase away 200,000 bikers -- there aren't enough rent-a-cops in the world to do that.

So one day we went up and visited both Rushmore and Crazy Horse -- and were able to take pictures and look for a bit witout giving anyone a dime.  And I think the best view was this hidden little side view of George Washington that I glanced at as we were riding by -- I don't think I would have noticed it in a car.
Just like Spring Break for college kids, there is an ubelieveable amount of booze comsumed here and the bars and venues are absoulutely enormous.  The Full Throttle bills itslef as the "Worlds Largest Biker Bar".  It must cover a square mile, and hosts some big name concerts.  And there is so much drinking that when I went to demo drive a bike at 1030am, they made everyone take a brethalyzer test before being allowed to test drive.So after a week of being here, and the sun sets on Sturgis, I've driven some fun roads, seen some great scenery, test driven a few new rides, made a few friends, bought too many t-shirts and gadgets for the bike, got two new tattoos, and a very dark biker tan.  It's time to head back to Seattle.  Back West again, back home to the real world.  Away from Spring Break for Adults -- for at least another year.I've posted a large album of photos with captions on my Facebook page -- even if you do not have a Facebook membership you can view it:
www.facebook.com/album.php

The Black Hills of South Dakota and Wyoming has some of the nicest scenery and coolest places to ride as anywhere.  When we came through last year, Tony and I didn't have time to really explore much, and so today Andre and I decided to head out to Devils Tower, Wyoming -- about 80 miles from Sturgis.  It was very windy this morning, but warm -- Andre ducked out for a smoke and came back saying just that.  I asked if the long sleeve t-shirt I was going to wear would be too warm and he said I wouldn't need it and so I changed into a regular t-shirt.  We took off up SD-34 towards Belle Fourche into a viscious head wind.  It also got cloudy as we headed North East as well as cooler, so when I pulled off for gas I glared at him and said "no need for a long sleeve shirt eh?"  I was glad my light leather jacket was still in the sadle bag, so I put it on while the perpetually hungry Andre went into the Kum and Go and got a burrito.  

We left Belle Fourche and and started heading East into Wyoming and it sprinkled off and on again as we rode through the Black Hills and past small towns like Alladin (population 15), Alva (population 65) and Hulett (population 97).  As we climbed up out of the valley of the Belle Fourche river, there it was standing all alone out in the prarie -- Devils Tower -- looking just like you'd expect it to.  I had this strange compulsion to carve a tower out of mashed potatos, but we rode on and went right up to the base of the tower.  We stayed and chatted with the rangers and other visitors for a bit before heading back down and towards Sturgis again.  We stopped for lunch in Hulett at another tavern that seems to cater to bikers, with lots of bikes parked out in front like horses in an old west movie, and the roast beef sandwich was great.  The proprietor overheard us commenting on the pictures we took and how beautiful the Black Hills were and agreed -- saying it was a magical place and he'd first visited 30 years ago and never left.

We got back to Sturgis and spend some more time exploring the endless aray of vendors and shopps -- eating some good food, and just plain people watching.  I think people watching is one of the best parts of Sturgis.  However, Andre, who is a huge flirt, is having far more fun, but because Sturgis is so overtly heterosexual, I keep thinking he might get his teeth bashed in.  How overtly heterosexual is it?  Well you can get a bikini bike wash, or even a bikini oil change, and the t-shirts run the gammut from tame to outright obscene.   Womens' liberation never made it to Sturgis.  I want the jock strap bike wash/oil change -- on second thought, no I don't -- not the guys around here anyway, they all tend to look like me.

Nonetheless, it's a lot of fun, and I'm looking forward to running into some friends who are still making their way here.  The rally officially starts tomorrow, but it's already packed with bikers and bikes.  There is a ton of people, a lot to see, and the constant rumble of motorcycles fills the air, along with the endless roads around the Black Hills to be discovered.  It's going to be an experience for sure.

Sturgis, if nothing else, is LOUD!  Innumerable bikes roaring up and down the streets, music blaring from the bars, and very loud bands like Areosmith and Toby Kieth in concert.  If I weren't already hard of hearing I would be now -- and I may lose what's left of what I have after four more days here -- but that's half the fun.

Andre and I slept late and then got up and went to the free breakfast bar at the Holiday Inn Express.  If you were NOT wearing a Harley-Davidson t-shirt you were a distinct minority this morning.  In fact I think only the staff were not wearing some sort of HD wear.  I insisted on washing the bikes first thing this morning -- mine was so dirty I couldn't stand to even sit on it, so off to the coin-op car wash we went -- along with 100 other bikers, so we had to wait a bit, and chatted amongst the folks in line as bikers are prone to do.  It took some doing, but we go the bikes reasonably clean, but not detailed.  At least I'm not ashamed to park on Main Street now with the other gorgeous bikes.We rode down to Main Street in Sturgis and searched for about 20 mintues for parking, and then spent the afternoon wandering the shops and spending money.  As soon as we parked Andre (with his hummingbird metabolism) announced he was hungry and proceded to eat a hot dog smothered with peppers and onions (only 90 minutes after breakfast).  He also wanted to get a tattoo, so we visited several of the many tattoo parlors in Sturgis until he found one he liked.  In the process I decided, what the hell, I'll get one too -- better yet, I'll get two!  So 90 minutes and much teeth gritting, pain, and a little blood later, I had the following two images inked on my left calf and right bicep respectively.  What's a trip to Sturgis without a commemorative tattoo?After we got them done, and they wrapped them up in Saran Wrap making me feel like leftover chicken being put in the fridge, we wandered and shopped some more -- bought a few shirts and some gadgets for the bike and had lunch.  There is a ton of food here -- picture the Puyallup fair only with nothing but bikers for miles and miles. 

It never really warmed up much today -- the new thermometer/clock I got for the bike showed 78 when I installed it.  Last year it was 102 when we were here and so all I brought were short sleeve or sleevless shirts and only one long-sleeve, so I bought a couple of long sleeves and wore one as we rode up the mountain to Deadwood for dinner.

Deadwood is south of Sturgis, up in the Black Hills -- and a very nice  short 15 mile ride up the hill.  Damn if it wasn't cold though, even in a long sleeve and a jacket!  It's an old mining town, revived with casinos and reminds me a little of Park City.  We parked with a few hundred other bikers and wandered the town before having a nice prime rib dinner.

On a day that broke the all time heat record in Seattle, I really can't complain that we froze our butts off today riding across Wyoming or I'm likely to face the wrath of my Seattle friends when I get home.  I've ridden in some lousy weather before -- a blizzard in Utah in May of 2008 tops the list for one, but the wind, rain, and hail today put this as probably the second worst ride I've done.  It started out with rain in Riverton, WY when we woke up, and so I jumped on line and pulled up the weather channel to see what the day would be like.  Thank goodness for live radar.  It looked like we'd be in bad weather all day on the route I'd originally planned, so over the freebie breakfast we plotted a new route that would take us North and then East more or less around the stormy areas, and getting us to Sturgis quicker by virtue of 180 miles of freeway.I dug the rain gear out of the saddlebags and struggled into it -- I've put on a few pounds since last I wore it, and it's not easy to get into anyway. Picture putting on rubber pants over thick Carhartt jeans and big motorcycle boots -- like putting a kid into a snowsuit who doesn't want to get into a snowsuit.  The stuff is miserable to wear too -- hot, and it doesn't breathe, but it does keep you dry -- or at least drier than not wearing it, as you ride through what amounts to a giant carwash.  One of the most irritating factors about rain gear is that it doesn't "slide", so when one adjusts position on the seat, the pants don't move with your body which then causes the inner pants and underwear to move with your skin, and after a day of riding in it my underwear tends to ride so far up that if I sneezed my boxer-briefs would come out my nose.  This is why I'm not happy wearing it as you can tell.

We headed Northeast out of Riverton on US-26, and rather than turn east when it joined up with US-20 a few miles up, we continued on US-20 West.  It took me a minute to realize we were in fact going on the right road, as we'd been on US-20 in Oregon going East, and this felt like we were going backwards.  But US-20 at this point is going more or less North, and we left US-20 at Yellowstone Park, where it loops through and then comes down into Wyoming, and if we kept going the way we were this morning we'd actually go back towards Yellowstone -- so while we were going North, this was the right road although the signs sure made it feel wrong.  The Wind River canyon was very pretty as we climbed up towards Thermopolis, WY -- I was unable to take pictures as we were in and out of ran showers all morning.  I will say that the canyon and river were appropriately named, as the head and side wind were fierce.  I was worried about Andre, who was riding with no windsheild for protection (he forgot it), and no rain gear (he left it on a friends bike).  He was one miserable wet rider by the time we got to Thermopolis where we stopped to dry off for a bit.  One of the things I love about riding in the West are the lonley abandoned structures that dot the landscape -- each one with a back story to tell if you could figure it out. This old building was outside Thermopolis and looks like something from a movie set.

We continued on up US-20 until Worland when we turned East on US-16 towards the tiny town of "Ten Sleep".  This turned out to be a charming little town with old-west fronts and a nice saloon with a row of bikes parked out front like horses used to be in the old west.  We decided to stop for lunch.  The other bikes belonged to a group of Canadians who were also headed up the pass and asked if we'd come down it as they too were worried about the weather, and then recommended the onion rings (they were right, and the meatball sandwich I had was even better).   It was here at the saloon that Andre noticed a stuffed "Jackalope" on the wall, and commented "thats a good model".  I told him it was real -- that in Wyoming you'd find a crossed Jackrabbit and Antalope called a "Jackalope".  He laughed, but I got the bartender to help me out, but try as we might Andre wouldn't fall for it.

We finished lunch and got back on the bikes and headed up Ten Sleep Creek Canyon -- the Canadians pulling out about 20 minutes before us.  Like most of the roads in Wyoming, this was very quiet, and very little traffic -- and we could see a layer of clouds far up on the mountains.  Before we left I told Andre we were going to get rained on going up the mountain and he said "no we won't -- it's not gonna rain."  As we left town there were several "warning" signs saying "US-16 closed if lights flashing" and "If lights flashing, return to Ten Sleep" -- all of which reminded me of the warnings in the forest Dorothy came upon as they searched for the witch's broom in Wizzard of Oz.  Maybe we should have paid attention, because as climbed up this very pretty, and very lightly traveled canyon, it kept getting colder and to me it felt like a late fall/early winter kind of storm -- where you can just feel that it's going to snow high in the mountains.  Sure enough as we approached the top of Wind River Pass at 9960 feet, it started -- not to snow, but to hail!  Little tiny gnat sized hailstones that hurt like hell at 40mph.  I at least had a windshield and some protection -- poor Andre had none and by the time we got down the other side and into the town of Buffalo, he said that was the most painful thing he'd ever experienced.  He also reminded me he was right -- we didn't get rained on.   We stopped at the Kum and Go market (yes that is the correct spelling of the name) and I changed out of my rain gear, and then hit I-90 for the 180 miles to Sturgis. 

The rest of the ride was pretty uneventful, and rather boring as we roared up the Interstate for two hours.  We made it to Sturgis -- after 360 miles, the shortest of our days so far, and checked into the Holiday Inn Express where we'll be for the next six nights.  The rally doesn't get started until Saturday, but all the vendors are setting up now and the crowds are less, and we'll get to sleep in since we don't have to hit the road early tomorrow morning.  At dinner tonight everyone was complaining of the cold -- but they say it won't last.  It was in the 90s when Tony and I were here last year -- and it's supposed to get up to the mid 70s tomorrow!  Sorry Seattle -- don't hate me -- if I could box up some of this deliciously cool air and FedEx it to you I would.

The day was already warm when we loaded up the bikes at the Holiday Inn Express in Caldwell, Idaho and headed out down I-84 towards Mountain Home.  I wore only a t-shirt, as the sun was up and it was nearly 80 when we left.  I have to say the run down I-84, while only 45 miles, was long and hot and boring as most freeway riding is.  At Mountain Home we exited and headed East on US-20 and up the Camas Prairie towards the Sun Valley.  However as we climbed up from the lowlands, it got noticeably cooler, and the quiet ride east towards the junction with Idaho 75 (the main road to Sun Valley) was quite pretty.  We took our first stop of the day at the little rest area at the junction with the road to Sun Valley, and I'd wished we had time to buzz up there, but we didn't.  We spoke with an older couple on a Honda Goldwing trike who were headed West - on almost the exact route we came from, so we told them what to expect before heading out on the road.A few miles up the road we entered the fringe of Craters of the Moon National Monument -- with it's black lava flows and desolation making it appear like a Lunar landscape, and then turned south at Arco, Idaho and across the Idaho National Laboratory lands -- home of the first commercial nuclear power plant.  There is a reason they put that out here -- there is NOTHING out here.  The road is straight and long like many in the West, and there is very little to look at except the mountains on the horizon, and the road in the rear-view -- and the flashing lights of an Idaho State Patrol truck!  Apparently we were doing 79 in a 65 zone.  Albeit a straight, flat, in the middle of BFE nowhere zone.  The officer was kind and didn't write us a ticket, but followed us for 35 miles -- at 63 mph all the way into Idaho Falls where we stopped for lunch.

After a nice break we headed east towards Jackson, Wyoming (keeping an eye out for Dick Cheney and his shotgun).  It kept getting cooler the higher we got in elevation, and so at Jackson I actually pulled out my leather jacket for the first time on this trip and put it on!  The ride North and East from Jackson is spectacular -- I had just passed this way not two months ago on the US-89 ride, but it was Andre's first time and so we stopped for pictures at one of the overlooks.  He said he was hungry and had a bite -- the guy has the metabolism of a hummingbird as he ate at every stop -- het he's skinny as twig.  I'm jealous.  Of course after eating he had to relax a bit.  I've known Andre for a number of years, and we ride together on some trips with the motorcycle club, but this is the first time we've done a long haul trip together and it's wearing on him.We crossed the Continental Divide and started down the Wind River valley.  Far off in the distance we could see thunderheads, which are very typical in this part of the country in the late summer afternoon.  The ride down the Wind River was as nice as the one up, without the construction of course, and the air was crisp and clear and smelled like Western Mountain Air.  I don't know how else to describe it -- Lord knows I've tried in the past, but I can't.  I don't smell it in the mountains of the Northwest, or in the East -- only in the Intermountain West, and anyone who's been here knows it -- but I dare say can't describe it either.  If you've not, you  just have to come out to experience it for yourself.  Smell is one of the senses that is most acute when on the motorcycle, and you do smell everything -- good and bad -- including fresh fertilizer and roadkill.  But the good smells more than make up for it -- sagebrush, fresh mown alfalfa, pine, sawmills, and the smell just after a rain.

As we got down to the Wyoming prairie, the road was a bit damp and you could smell it had just rained, although the skies were clear. However we could see the tail end of the storm which was headed East just like we were -- although at a slower pace.  Some 20 miles outside of Riverton we started to get rather close -- enough to see the lightning and the road was still very wet, but we didn't have any drops falling on us.  We chased the storm all the way into Riverton, where the aforementioned tacky Roadway Inn awaited us, along with a rather nice Italian dinner across the street at a small litlle joint that little towns seem to have.  In the morning we'll hit the road again, and hope the showers have cleared off and make it to Sturgis by nightfall.

I've been looking forward to going back to Sturgis this year after Tony and I stopped by on our way West on the Corner To Corner trip last year.  Almost every serious biker has to go to Sturgis at least once in their life, and I know a few who go back every year.  It's officially the "Black Hills Motorcycle Rally" and this is the 69th annual one, but everyone calls it "Sturgis", after the host town in South Dakota.  I actually reserved the hotel room last year since it tends to attract upwards of 500,000 bikers.  However, with Tony and I splitting, I didn't have anyone to go with, until my friend Andre Cuesta stepped up and said he'd go.  Andre rides a Harley as well, and is in both HOG and the Border Riders, the two clubs I ride with.  Tony and I have ridden with him before and enjoyed it, and he's never been to Sturgis. 

However, Andre is not known for being punctual -- and anyone who knows me knows that I am terribly punctual and get irritated at anyone who isn't.  So at 6am this morning I get a call from him and he's panicked because he can't find his registration for his bike, then he falls down the stairs and hurts his foot, and he hasn't showered yet and will be leaving late.  He says this as I'm sitting on the bike in the garage ready to go.  We were supposed to meet at Ken's Truck stop in North Bend, WA, 35 miles East of Seattle at 8am.  To his credit he said he'd be late -- 8:45.  Well, 8:45 came and went, and no Andre.  I was standing in the shadow of the "At the foot of the cross chapel", which was made from an old garden shed with a cross made of 4x4 lumber sitting next to the "pet" area across the parking lot from the truck stop.  I guess God really is everywhere.  I was tempted to go in and pray I didn't kill Andre for being late, but about then he rolled up.  So we headed east on I-90 and over Snoqualmie Pass and down towards Cle Elum where we exited and took the back roads along  the Yakima River Canyon and across the Yakima Valley towards the Columbia River and into Oregon.  It was hot -- like riding through a convection oven.  Riding in Oregon is always a challenge -- as we are all too dumb to be able to pump our own gas and have to, by law, have an attendant do it.  We had lunch in Pendleton where it was 102 degrees and rode south on US-395 up into the Blue Mountains where it was cool and nice and very pretty.  This road is one of the least traveled and remote in Oregon -- I bet we passed only a dozen cars in nearly 100 miles.  There are only a couple of near ghost towns between Pendleton and John Day too, so it made for a nice quiet ride.

About half way to John Day one crosses the 45th Parallel -- which is half way between the Equator and the North Pole.  If we are to imagine the earth divided into four quarters, numbered 1 at the North Pole, and 4 at the South Pole, this would put me quadrant 2.  If the Equator is the middle, which would be the south border of this quadrant, I would have to say that I just crossed the boundary into "Middle Earth".  I suppose I should be watching for Hobbits then.  Instead I had to watch for birds -- lots of them.  I hit three of them on this trip!  Quail I think -- sitting in the road and would try to outrun the bike.  I'm not going to swerve to avoid a damn bird at 70mph.  

I really didn’t feel much like hanging in Whistler on Sunday, so I decided to hit the road and take the long long way home – heading northeast on BC-99 to Pemberton and over the mountains to Lillooet, before going down the Fraser River canyon on BC-12 and the Trans Canada, and into the US at Aldergrove.  Tony and I took this route the first time we rode the bikes to Whistler and it became our first long road trip.  It really is a very pretty and very quiet drive.  The road past Pemberton has always been more than a bit bumpy, but in anticipation of the Olympics next year they are repaving it so it was a sweet ride, like ice after a Zamboni has gone over it.      I was able to relax and enjoy it, and listen to the I-pod.  One of my favorite Canadian folk singers is Stan Rogers, and a song called “Down The Road” came on and it fit perfectly:

The sun is rising high, burning into the day.
I will say goodbye, I’ll be going away.
Brush away my doubts, what tomorrow will hold.
Feeling fine for now, going down the road.

The road up past Duffy Lake and down the Fraser Canyon is so remote though that there is no cell service – which makes it impossible to post Facebook updates, and makes one feel really out of touch and that much more alone.   I don’t feel the occasional buzz on my cell phone from texts or calls from friends.  Fortunately I was chatting with my friend Quincy online before I left and I told him the route I was taking and that if I didn’t make it back by Monday he should call the RCMP and send the Mounties out (preferably a cute Asian one with the traditional red Mountie uniform on, but I digress).  It was very warm once I got over the mountains and I stopped to drop the jacket and change into a short sleeve tshirt for the ride down the Fraser.  It was sad to see the hundreds of red needled trees as they are getting a pine beetle infestation here as well, just as they are in Utah.  And it was so hot and dry that I was afraid if I spit it would have started a fire.  I used to think the Fraser was Canada's version of a cross between the Columbia and the Mississippi and is a huge river that drains most of Western Canada however, my riding buddy and good friend Wayne is a Canuck living in the US, corrected me:  

CORRECTION: The Fraser River does not drain most of western Canada.  It drains west from the continental divide between BC and Alberta. Is it not the Mississippi/Columbia of Canada.  The Mackenzie River in NWT has that distinction.  Rivers in AB, Sask, and Manitoba drain into the Hudson’s Bay.  
FACT:  The Colombia Rivers headwaters are in BC. You damn banditos Yankees keep building or built dams on the damn river. 

I stopped in the small town of Lytton for lunch before the Trans Canada (Canada 1) merged with BC-12.  It got me again to thinking what a neat ride it would be to go the entire length of the road, from Victoria BC to St. Johns, Newfoundland.  I've done "Corner to Corner" and gone almost Border to Border on US-89 -- maybe this is book #3 (assuming I ever get to writing 1 and 2.)  But a trans-Canada is brewing in the back of my mind now.

The is route home is about 160 miles further than the direct route up, and the largest town on the ride is probably Hope BC with a population of  about 8,000.  It was here I picked up cell service and was able to post some pictures of the ride over the mountains, and check email and reply to a few texts.  It really is an odd sensation not being cut loose from the electronic tether – especially when one is traveling sans companion to talk to and share things with.  I think that is why I do post so much and text my friends and send them pictures – it makes one feel less alone when traveling alone.

And apparently my “single” status is something for the US Department of Homeland Security (Sieg Heil!) to be concerned about.  Normally when I use the main border crossing in Blaine, I use my Nexus pass which allows me to bypass the lineup and questioning.  The border crossing at Aldergrove is so small it doesn’t have a Nexus lane, so I had to go through the normal questioning.  I handed the officer (wearing mirrored sunglasses like the “boss” in Cool Hand Luke), my passport and he looked it over and asked the usual “Citizenship?”  “US.” [as an aside, I thought only US citizens had US passports -- so why ask the obvious?  To see if I have a funny accent?  What happens if I said another country? -- but I digress]  “Where are you coming from?”  “Whistler, taking the long route down from Lillooet”.  “Alone?”  Now mind you this is the SECOND stupid question, AND  I’m on a motorcycle with a suitcase strapped to the passenger seat – and while I resisted the urge to say “no, Mr. Invisible is sitting on top of the bag” I answered “yes”.  “Really?”  “Yes”.  “You didn’t meet anyone up there?”  Now I have to ask what the hell kind of nosy question is that?  Is my sex life any of Homeland Security’s (Sieg Heil!) business?  None the less I answered “No.”  He handed me back my passport and sent me on my way.  I fumed about this for a few miles – wondering how in the world it’s come this, and reflected on the small army of Border Patrol agents I saw in May in Arizona and California, and how much of our freedom we’ve given up in the name of “security”.  I’ve said it before, I don’t feel all that “secure” with these mostly wanna-be cops in charge.

After I crossed I stayed on WA-9 for most of the ride towards Seattle – this is one of my favorite backroads, and it roughly parallels I-5, yet no one takes it.  This is a wonderful road through some nice small towns, and I stopped for dinner in a nice roadside joint before finishing the ride to Seattle.So now I’ve got a week to catch up and finish a couple of work projects, pay bills, and do some stuff around the house before hitting the road again and heading off to the Sturgis Rally a week from today.

I’m sitting on the deck of the Whistler condo as I write this – a gorgeous day in the mountains – warm, sunny, and a nice breeze.  I had to come up for my final meeting on the Board of the Homeowners Association for the condo – having been President for the last nine years I decided last year to not seek election when my term expired this year.   It’s been an interesting two days -- riding up here on the bike and hanging in Whistler,  and I’ve made some random notes about a few things, so this post will kind of ramble a bit.The weather forecast was for a nice weekend, so I figured I’d ride the bike the 250 miles up – I’ve not gotten a lot of riding in since coming back from the big trip in May.  Although I left Friday morning at what I thought was “post morning rush” traffic, it still took me nearly 90 minutes to go the 28 miles from Seattle to Everett on I-5.  There was a TON of traffic, and all that rushing traffic I think psychologically makes you want to go faster as well, and it causes you to stress, become tense – push through – rush – hurry.  I really had no timeline (except to get to Vancouver BC before their rush hour started), but still I found myself rushing.  I think the nature of freeway travel causes that.

I exited off just north of Arlington at the small town of Sylvana, and took the old Pioneer Highway through Skagit County.  There was no traffic here, and so I could relax and meander the farm roads – stop tensing up, pushing, and rushing, and I could enjoy the warmth of the sun on my bare arms and the wind in my face.  (Note to self -- put sun screen on the back of your hands -- your riding gloves have a big oval opening that when exposed will burn your hands red and look like funny birthmarks.)
I stopped for lunch in Edison, WA at the Longhorn Saloon.  I saw another bike parked out front and so I figured it was worth a stop.  I enjoyed a nice casual lunch before hitting the road and taking Chuckanut Drive up to Bellingham.  Its funny when I’m traveling alone I find myself posting updates on Facebook more often.  Aside from the fact it’s amazing to be able to type out a few characters on my phone and it uploads to a web page so that folks know what’s going on – and I can even post pictures instantly – it somehow makes me feel like someone out there cares and is watching.  Traveling alone – although something I tend to enjoy – is a little hard, but being able to text folks or post things to Facebook somehow makes you feel like you are alive and maybe gives the illusion that someone cares because they might read it and think “oh cool, Gary’s riding up the coast”.  It’s kind of vain in a way I suppose as well, but I found myself doing it a lot when I was on the road in May, as well as this weekend from Whistler.

I unfortunately had to get back on the freeway in Bellingham for the run up to and across the border and in to Vancouver BC.  I swear even though the traffic wasn’t heavy, it was all around and rushing and I’m positive my blood pressure went up. It would be interesting to have a BP cuff and take a measurement.  There is so much more to concentrate on with all the traffic moving around that you naturally I think tense up.

As always, it takes some time to get across Vancouver, but at 3pm it wasn’t all that bad, and before I new it I found myself on Highway 1, the Trans Canada.  Now that would be a road trip – Victoria BC all the way to Halifax, Nova Scotia.  The Province of BC has been working on Highway 99 the Sea To Sky highway for the last 7 years, getting it ready for the Olympics.  This has to be one of the  most spectacular drives anywhere, and a hell of a lot of fun on the bike.  It travels the East side of Howe Sound and up a fijord to Squamish before heading inland and up to Whistler and the BC Interior.  Where there was once a two lane road hanging by a thread to a notch caved out of a cliff, there is now a modern engineering marvel of a four lane divided highway.  Although the old road was fun in a roller coaster kind of way, the new road is still spectacular and shaves some time off the trip.  I was kind of  “lost” for a while, as I used to know every curve on the old road, but a lot has changed in the 17 years I’ve been coming up to Whistler. 

This place has always felt like a second home too – until this trip.  While I’ve come up here alone in the past, this is the first time I’ve come up alone since Tony and I split up.  This was always our second home – and while I’ve learned to live with the ghosts of the Seattle house, the ghosts remain strong up here.  I opened up our locked closet to find his toiletries and clothes here.  I walked to the village alone and ate alone at our favorite “first night” restaurant, Mongolie Grill.  I wanted to text and share with him what I was seeing and feeling like I did when we were together, but for the most part I didn’t want to intrude on his weekend away in Portland with a new friend, but everywhere I went I saw things that I would want to turn to him and say and I couldn't.

I rode up the mountain on the gondola after my meeting today – something we would have done had he come with me.  I looked down at the runs we loved to ski, and how much we loved coming up here and racing down the mountains, and I have to wonder again if I can do it alone. 

Among the changes up here is a new massive “thrill ride” of sorts.  The worlds longest and highest gondola – known as the Peak To Peak.  It crosses the canyon of Fitzimons Creek at a level that planes fly, and gets you from the tops of Whistler Mountain to Blackcomb Mountain in 11 minutes as opposed to the more than 60 minutes it takes skiing all the way down one mountain and riding all the way back the other. It is indeed like flying – very quiet, and high above the valley floor.  Once again the amazing thing about technology that allows me to post to Facebook, while riding the darn thing, these pictures above I sent to FB while in the gondola to show folks I’m riding the thing.  When you are alone with no one to talk to or share the experience with, posting status updates and instant pictures to Facebook seems to fulfill that need in a minor way. 

I rode the chair lifts down the Blackcomb side of the mountain, enjoying the sun, the breeze, the wildflowers in the meadow and even a lonely black bear walking a trail below the lifts – somewhat symbolic I suppose -- and then walked back to the condo.

It’s getting close to dinner time – so I’ll walk back to the Village in a bit, and maybe take in the Harry Potter movie at the little cinema here, and swing by Cows, the quirky cool Canadian ice cream shop.  I had thought about leaving on Monday so I could avoid the weekend down canyon traffic, but I’m not sure the ghosts here will let me stay, so I might just ride the long way home through Lillooet and down the Fraser River Canyon tomorrow and get back to Seattle sometime late Sunday.  We’ll see in the morning.