New Orleans

NOLA is probably a marvelous town to visit well rested, horny, and with a well known crowd of one's own revelers. 880 miles of counting Texas road kill deer (I lost track at 40) and spotting the occasional living example from the back of a vehicle which might fare no better than the fauna in an altercation between the two occupied 30% of my available headspace for the last two days. Even the greeting I received from two pair of pendulous 45 year old breasts from the balcony of my hotel were hardly worthy of my attention.

Finally granted the opportunity to stop thinking about the murderous giant rats for an evening, and having enjoyed a tremendous meal at Lüke, I am falling asleep and forced to admit that I just don't have it in me to go back out. I'm sure the stories that would arise from my exhausted stumbling along Bourbon Street to meet a friend's audio engineer buddy (who's doing a show, tonight) would be far more exciting than this brief missive, so I'll take some time to think about what might have happened had I remained on the street and try to tell some entertaining lies, tomorrow.

Texas isn't so bad--it's just too damned big.

It does offer some very pretty skies.

Here I attempted to get a shot of the causeway through the swamp that comprises most of I-10 through Louisiana. For 20 miles this elevated roadway cuts through the treetops. I can't imagine what traveling through this state was like before modern construction. There's definitely a lot more wet than there is dry.

Abandoned Blogs and Orphaned Apps

...are both crimes against humanity and deserve punishment. In hopes of avoiding a sentence to the House of Pain your intrepid guide has returned.

For the moment the story of the original transamerican crossing will remain paused. I want to be certain to give the proper attention due accurate assessments of Kansas bike shops and barbecue, and New Mexico's "Hatch" chile. Since I'm writing from a New Mexican motel room on a different ride it just doesn't seem fair to allow my current thoughts to color my other critiques.

So, what's the point? Tonight, I'm not certain there is one. I have no new pictures, and this ride is mostly about getting back to Mobile, AL in order to shoot the third edition of CMT's Sweet Home Alabama. Which means I've ridden 1000 miles in two days, much of it on interstate highways that can and have been seen by most of you, leaving me little more to talk about than my surprise at the sheer number of Border Patrol agents and State Troopers patrolling the Christopher Columbus Transcontinental Highway.

I have made a new observation; Germans in America are the most affable, friendly, generous and helpful people in the States. In two days I have received excellent hotel, food, road and route advice, and even a standing offer of a place to stay in New Mexico--all from Deutschelander ex-pats. I can't explain what's drawn me to them, but for 48 hours now I have been hard pressed to stick out my hand and say hello without receiving a distinctive "Halloo!" in return. Maybe my next move shouldn't be to Boulder or Xhiang-Hai, but to Hamburg.

The Brits in Lovington, NM, earlier today were equally friendly in the self-conscious way the English prefer, but as they were tourists to the area, themselves, they weren't able to offer me the sort of extensive guidance proffered by their Teutonic peers.

Wolfgang towed his pair of Italian race bikes into the gas station immediately behind me. 30 seconds later we were long lost friends reminiscing about all the rides we'd never taken together. Learning of my plan to stick to Highway 10 in order to eat up as many miles as possible Wolfie insisted I alter my route, adding 40 miles, perhaps an hour or two, another great road, and lifting spirits that were getting deflated by the endless game of dodge the dead truck tire treads. I have now seen the White Sands in fall, which I'm a little sorry to have not photographed. Even the low lying bushes covering the low dunes of White Sands are succumbing to the shifting shades of fall, painting the desert in the ochers, rusts, reds and yellows I'd left behind in the forests of the east.

For tonight, danke schön! Danke!

Illinois

The ride from Louisville to Chicagoland is really all about Indiana. Which means it's really all about I65, and that's all I have to say about that. The weather wasn't great and I just wanted to get to the Chicago area and start looking for tires, as those on the bike were clearly not going to carry me to California (and probably not past Colorado)

Knowing that this will probably be read by fellow motorcyclists, I wouldn't typically share this embarrassing tire photo. The high level of wear down the center coupled with the almost non-existent wear to either side shows that I've spent far too much time straight up and down for any self-respecting rider. It also shows that I have about 1000 miles to get that thing replaced (which would be a total of about 4500 miles on one tire, which in the motorcycling world is about average). The previous owner thought the tires would be good for at least another 6000 miles from the day I took the bike, so I'm guessing our riding styles slightly differ (no offense, Phil :-) ).

I arrived in the southern 'burbs of Chicago on a Sunday afternoon. Motorcycle shops are usually closed on Sundays and Mondays--you know, the two days of the week on which it's most likely a bike will need servicing because everyone rides on the weekend? Imagine if you were a hobby fisherman trying to go out on a Sunday morning and all the bait shops were closed. Thankfully, in most large cities the really serious shops--those most likely to stock lots of tires and be happy to earn your money--have learned this lesson and are open 7 days of the week. In the Chicagoland area, roughly 28,000 square miles of suburbs surrounding cluster of high rises clinging to a riverbank, I was able to find exactly 4 shops that bothered to run Monday hours--none of them were open on Sunday--so I shelved reaching them 'til the next morning and went to dinner with my friend, Sharon.

Sharon keeps dogs. When she still lived in Southern California one of them ate my prescription sunglasses. I probably shouldn't have been surprised when one from the next generation ate my new winter socks. Sharon said I had to laugh.

Monday died as I waited for 10am and my chance to call the few open shops. None of them had anything close to what I needed in stock, though one shop did offer me a sportbike tire for the rear and a Harley tire for the front. B- for effort, guys. So I waited for 11am, 10am in Kansas City, and started calling shops there. I finally found an open garage and a cooperative mechanic who offered to make room for me in his schedule and to have the tires waiting. By this time it was noon and I was scheduled to meet some of Sharon's other friends for dinner and Da Bears's game at the local pub, so I opted not to spend 4 hours getting in and out of Chicago proper.

That's right, I went all the way to the Chicago area and I STILL haven't seen the actual city. Sharon, you better feel special!

Sadly, Da Bearss didn't do so well. You can see the level of excitement from the local crowd.

Honestly, one of the things about this trip I've really enjoyed is getting to spend time with friends I haven't seen in many years, so hanging out and hearing about the new boyfriend and what life is about right now is always my first choice over seeing the various ways man has used steel and concrete to claw his way into the sky.

I should also mention Sharon's, and now my, friend Patrick. A fellow motorcyclist, he came over to say hi and take a gander at the bike. Noting the condition of my tires he got on the internet to his group of rider friends and within 15 minutes had multiple offers to help from people with used but still serviceable tires and the machines to swap everything out--all for free. Sadly, the used tires being offered had only slightly more life in them than those needing replacement, but the efforts of the Chicago motorcycling community are appreciated.

Back on the road I discovered that in southern Illinois the windfarms go on FOREVER.

Tired of staring down asphalt runways I turned off the GPS and grabbed a fistful of county roads.

While more entertaining than the highway, these dirt tracks are also often interrupted by people doing actual work.





Some of the working vehicles are VERY wide. My mirrors almost didn't clear the ladder and the shoulder there is sloped.










Completely harvested fields brought smooth sailing until I got back onto paved roads.

Paved roadway and the speed it, seemingly, afforded brought joy to my heart and my riding skills to the attention of a local representative of the Illinois State Troopers' Society. The officer (T-Pain, as far as I can tell from his signature) appreciated my skill SO much that he actually took time out of his day to congratulate and award me with a certificate for my superior technique. I worked hard on persuading him to give my top speed more credit, but he insisted that 64 was the highest score he could give.







Quincy brought me lodging for the evening and my first, and possibly last, visit to a Steak 'n' Shake.

Kentucky

Somehow, no matter how many borders I cross I keep expecting the landscape to change immediately after the sign announcing my arrival in a a state with new liquor laws. So far, the only major cross border changes I've observed are the asphalt and state trooper car colors. Taking back roads I never even saw a Welcome to Kentucky sign.

 The roads slowly got broader and straighter as I exited the diminishing hills of Kentucky's eastern expanse, and the horse population slowly increased, but until I got on the interstate it was all more dense fall foliage and little traffic.

 Not that I'm complaining. I did see a couple of Pontiacs, but they were all four doors and white.

 Toward the middle of a fairly short day of cruising with the throttle locked open I arrived in Louisville. The town is a typical middle American metropolis in a limbo state somewhere between used to be someplace and might be someplace, again, if the economy ever gives it the chance. The Louisville Slugger field is right smack in the middle of downtown, yet has a huge parking lot and massive areas of space. And this is for their minor league team!


I didn't get any shots of it, but Louisville is also the home of the KFC Yum! Center. It's a sports complex I assume gets utilized by many different companies for various events, but it was built primarily to provide a state-of-the-art playing facility for the university basketball team. How does this happen? Just a few weeks ago the NCAA threatened to fine Clemson University for receiving "special treatment" because our camera crew followed their football players along the pre-game "Tiger Walk" through the parking lot and into their stadium. Yet KFC is somehow allowed to build and sponsor a whole facility for a college team. It's a good thing I don't care about college athletics or I might be annoyed.


You can't see it, but just under that bridge is a waterfall (falling away from this viewing angle). Past that is a small island where the actual town was founded by some guy named Clark. You'd think it'd be called Clarkville, or maybe even Lewisville since we're talking about THAT Clark and his family, but I guess there was still some advantage to kissing some royal behind at the time.

Turning to the right from the water view revealed the source of the calliope-esque sound echoing among the sill buildings of downtown Louisville.

I visited Louisville to see my old friend, Sauron. He and his family have been there for the last decade, but he had never been to the Brown Hotel to have the meal (it's billed as a sandwich) called a Hot Brown. It's sort of the locomoco of L-town. Take some egg bread, cover it with a Jewish deli sized pile of sliced roast turkey, smother THAT in a parmesan cheese based gravy, then top it with some bacon and broil the whole mess until it's bubbling. It's both disgusting and delicious, and no, I didn't finish the whole thing.


Wandering the city and talking with a former Angeleno through a town that's not Detroit but could easily go that direction is confirming a suspicion of mine. It's not profound, and it's nothing new, but seeing this country from the ground is cementing it as part of my psyche. No matter where you go there is misery, despair, trouble, angst, and all the difficulties that come with life--but there is also contentment, joy, comfort, peace and satisfaction. I give a lot of lip service to making the choice of one over the other, yet falling into the former often seems the path of least resistance. The people I know and the people I've met so far all seem as guilty as I of coloring their own perspective, but the happier ones all choose far more often to see what is working for them as the tint to their visors.

Speaking of miserable places with happy people--next stop, Chicago!

West Virginia

No, West Virginia isn't the least backwards state in the Union, and had the toothbrush been invented anywhere else it would have been called a teethbrush, but that doesn't mean they don't know where and how to build roads!

Please forgive the shaky camera work, but I still haven't found a firm mounting position that also gives me access to the start/stop button.

Looking at the map it seemed like my best bet would be to head northwest toward the PA border (making certain to steer well clear of the actual state of Pennsylvania) in order to grab a nice long southwesterly run through the hills to the state capitol of Charleston. Dropping in at John Brown's Harpers Ferry seemed fitting (Brown was an abolitionist who ran a successful raid of the armory in this town located at the confluence of the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers),  I turned off the GPS and proceeded to see if I could get lost. I not only didn't, but I found more great roads than I could imagine. On one particularly challenging section of hilly forest I happened to glance in my mirrors to see the unmistakable dual grill of a BMW bearing down on me FAST from a quarter mile away. Nobody with the intimate knowledge of these roads necessary for the kind of speed being displayed could possibly also be in legal possession of a German sports car, so I moved the eff over and let him by before he got close enough to insist that I do so.

It took a few moments to regain my bearings after getting dusted by a metallic green mid '90's Pontiac. A little embarrassed to be overtaken by a rental car this was still welcome news. I'd just picked up a native guide! The posted speed limit in most of rural WV is 55mph (on roads that in most states would be getting 35mph postings and 15mph corner warnings), but this cat was running that speed as a minimum. If he was confident the turns could be taken at full speed I was confident I could stick with him and minimize my risk of an unplanned offroad excursion. So I spent the next 40 minutes experiencing the momentary terror my friend Jeffers misses so much from his days on two wheels.

Sadly, my experience with the metallic green Pontiacs of West Virginia was not all positive. Shortly after losing my guide to a turn I wasn't taking I met up with another daring local. This one thought it would be amusing to pull out from the left and park himself in my 60mph path at 20mph. My first impulse was to throw anchor, but a quarter mile of visibility afforded me a left side pass. Nonplussed by my demonstration of his inability to slow my progress the driver gave chase. I suspect he knew my former guide and thought that buying the same car would grant him equal prowess. Two corners later he was gone from my rear view and would have stayed there if it weren't for road construction.

This opportunity allowed him to park his front bumper on my rear tire while we crawled toward the flagman. Fine with me. As long as he stayed that close he couldn't get up the speed to cause any real injury. Finally reaching the front of the line revealed that his plan was to turn right at an adjoining road. He revved his engine and gunned by me, as close as possible, with all the acceleration his former rental could muster, losing control of the front end in the gravel strewn by the construction crew, failing to make the right and plowing straight into the guard rail on the opposite side. HAH! Oh...wait...he's REALLY pissed! And now if he hits me it won't damage his car any more than he just did! Just as I redirected my front wheel to the shoulder and a gap where RickyBobby couldn't reach me he opted to continue away.

The rest of the day was, thankfully, uneventful.

Downtown Charleston is actually kind of charming.
















I'd turned up just in time for a fairly extensive car show down by the river.

And was even treated to an entertaining performance by a local band.












A good night's sleep and tomorrow it's off to Kentucky!

DC & Arlington

Since I spent most of my day sight seeing with cousin Willie (I believe I misspelled it in the previous posting), I had no choice but to blast down the interstate and wind through DC to Arlington to meet up with another cousin, Alec.

Baltimore has a pretty amazing set of tunnels. Both bores are traveling the same direction, so the tunnels themselves are a lot narrower than what I'm accustomed to seeing, especially for as long as they are.

Riding through them is like blasting through a very long subway station.

Then you exit the other side and quickly hit traffic on its way into DC. Who the eff is going IN to DC at 5pm?








Thankfully, soon after I finally made it into the District I was passed by another motorcyclist who was moving in between the lanes of cars. There were no horns, no shaken fists, no epithets shouted from car windows--was it safe to lane share? Of course it's safer to be in between cars than sitting in traffic waiting to get rear ended, but were the local constabulary willing to let it pass if they saw me doing it? I let the squid on the race bike with the tucked under license plate lead the way and got across town in mere minutes, passing two cops on the way, neither of whom seemed fazed.

A delicious Ethiopian dinner, another great conversation with another relative who proves my family is full of great people, another night on an airbed (which is definitely better than sleeping on the ground) and I was off to discover the backwoods of West Virginia.

Day Too Many Since the Last Update

I don't think I have the patience to write, nor will I ask you to read, all of my observations from the last week in one sitting. So much like the plan for this ride, I'll just go state by state and we'll see how far I get.

Lake Seneca

Upstate New York is still green. It's technically fall though while a few of the trees have started to turn colors and lose their leaves most plants are still verdant and throwing off their evil, post-nasal drip inducing toxins. The roads, themselves, are in middling repair and travel through some very beautiful scenery over rolling hills and past a surprising number of wineries. Since I've NEVER heard anyone say a single word about any wines from New York I didn't bother stopping to check any of them out. Sadly, though the views were beautiful, the turns I was trying to find just did not reveal themselves. Most of NY's upper state roadways were clearly built solely for the task of moving goods and people from one place to another over the fastest possible route. Yeah, I don't get it, either.

I did manage to find this eastern homage to the LA hipster scene.

And for the race fans I stopped to check out the Glen (they wouldn't let me on the track).

Failing to find the unpaved roads I've been hoping to try didn't mean I couldn't find poorly paved roads! Please note the respectable level of grime I managed to accumulate between Rochester and Tonawonda. Yes, the ride was cold, wet, and dirty, and I loved every minute.

Pennsylvania is an entirely different world. The roads were clearly laid out by following the path of least resistance first found by the cattle and sheep. Avoiding the interstate meant that I had little choice but to carve and lean from village to village on ribbons of dirty asphalt with a minimum of 20 directional adjustments per mile. Of course, the fun had to be spoiled somehow. How are there still woods in a state with a logging truck population roughly equal to the total number of miles of paved roadway? 200 miles of twisty back road goodness quickly became 5 hours of sitting behind or passing logging trucks.

In the towns was a different issue. In California we're allowed to share lanes with cars in order to advance through traffic. In New York, it's illegal, but the occasional utilization of a motorcycle's greater power to weight ratio and smaller profile didn't seem to bother anyone. But in PA the moment I DARED nose up to a right turn alongside a driver that wasn't turning that direction I got howling horns and flying fingers. The typical Pennsylvanian just takes it as a personal affront if anyone gains a traffic advantage. My belief is that the disadvantages of being on a motorcycle should be rewarded by allowing access to some of the advantages of being on a motorcycle. I may not be welcome back in PA anytime soon.

Finally arriving in the historic district of downtown Philly I checked into my hotel and was informed that I'd be charged the same $25/night to park as any car. I asked, nicely, if some accommodation could be made since I didn't need to actually utilize a parking spot, but was flatly refused. That's fine, there's plenty of room to ride around the gate.

I spent a couple of days wandering the city, where I discovered that good local coffee is difficult, but not impossible, to find. Philadelphia has something called the Reading Terminal Market. In LA we get the Farmer's Market at 3rd and Fairfax, and we have the Grand Central Market, but both are shades of the original. Both Los Angeles versions have a touristy vibe to them. The Reading Market definitely gets its share of non-locals, but there's a distinct feeling that it is an active shopping district where real people get their real groceries on a regular basis.

Some very enjoyable wandering brought me to Old City Coffee, where I found a really quite good Kenyan brew.

 Next I went searching for my grandfather's old photo studio.

Yes, it looks like my sister, but that's my mother, her mother, and a dog.

Here's what stands there, now.











Other striking things about the city of brotherly love are that most of the cops are on foot and there are a LOT of them. The following pictures were all snapped within a minute of each other, with no precinct in sight. There was, admittedly, a Dunkin' Donuts across the street.

I'm not sure whose idea it was to prank the city, but someone filled the LoVE fountain with grape Kool-Aid. It looked funny but tasted DELICIOUS!

I took advantage of being in Philly to meet my cousin, Jennifer, for lunch (no picture), some other family friends, and my mother's cousin Willy. Imagine a world where Frank Zappa, Henri Matisse, Mark Twain, Sam Elliot and Anton LaVey can all be merged into a single bagpipe playing free spirit charmer and you might have a reasonable assemblage of parts partially approximating the man who took a day to show me around the Philadelphia suburbs much of my maternal extended family have called home since the 1920's.

 

Oh, and this is the sort of gap the typical PA native doesn't want a motorcyclist using:

Thankfully, I was off to Washington DC, where they understand that every motorcycle means one less car.