Now That We're Home.

We are back home. H__went all the way and splurged on business-class seats back to JFK where we were picked up and driven home in style, both of us sleeping all the way until the driver woke us up for directions five minutes away from our house. Life, in its everyday vacuum, has begun. And speaking of vacuums, it takes a lot to leave California for many reasons, all of which Child#2 has discovered and will, henceforth, only darken our door infrequently and for short periods back "out East."

I am now speaking directly to you Child #2. (And anyone else who lives in their version of California physically or mentally). The realization of your enviable geographic situation is in no way to be taken as approval of your decision to deprive us all back here of your company. I understand that you go to work at a playground where they pay you amounts of money that would far exceed your allowance were you to live at home in your room and hang out in the basement playing video games. I understand that you get paid to play video games upstairs in your office, out in the open with an ever ready band of eager colleagues if you want. Yes, I know that you may wear your pajamas to work if it strikes you as that kind of day, or your ball gown if it strikes you as another kind of day. I know that if you want you can get on those funny little colourful bicycles for a quick whiz over to the jungle gymn, or the endless pool, or the sandbox, or the climbing wall for a break. On company time. On company property. On property provided by the company so that you and their army of hundreds all under the age of twenty seven, and exactly 3 old people of forty-two, might have room to let your creative ideas simmer. I know that these measures are all imperative for optimum productivity at the office. I don't condone your absence but I sure as hell understand it.

Notice, all, that I implied the existence of a California State of Mind which, in my experience, leaves East Coasters grumpy and irritable. Or maybe it is plain fatigue. Every morning at the hotel in Palo Alto, for an entire week, before we rolled out of bed with no other agenda but a leisurely breakfast, H__and I played a guessing game, fully aware of the answer, before throwing open the curtains. Would it be? Would it not? The answer was unchanging. Yes! Another effing day in Paradise. Sunshine would flood the windows, birds would tweet, Koi would swim in the water garden below us and ideal temperatures would await. Yes, we who endured last winter exiting and entering the front door through a tunnel of snow whose walls were higher than either of us, were scathing of the California perfection.

The weeks on the road seem to have unleashed our inner "bring it on", beast. Or mine at least. H__ isn't saying.

Today, I drove a car for the first time since I first sat on my motorcycle three weeks ago. It was comfortable, air conditioned, NPR- tuned. I was physically safer than at any time during the trip and completely shut off from the world. I know, I could have opened a window, turned off my GPS system and my laser detector ( I use it just to remind me not to exceed the speed limit of course) but it is so easy to fall back into old, predictable, patterns. I realize that my "bring it on beast" is chafing at the bit. I must be mindful at all times to give it room to roam.

I realize now that H__and I were disdainful of the perfect days in "effing Paradise" because on some level we were gearing ourselves up for the daily battle against excessive familiarity. We tend to do things the way we do because that's what we've been taught, or that's what we've always done, or what has served us in the past.

We all live life in a vacuum for the most part. Even those of us who take time out to be fully in our consciousness. I am striving for a state of being that allows my mind to hang on to the notion that life is more like a motorcycle than an SUV. It is to be allowed full rein. A Motorcycle State of Mind is one I want to hang out in more often than not. I want to look around, paying attention to the elements, the changing conditions, the unpredictability of life, flirting with a little danger from time to time and experiencing the pure joy of freedom that is mine for the taking.

A Final Send Off

So, we got in the last twelve miles of California riding from the hotel to the shipping depot. Our bikes are going home before us and will be available for pickup in CT next week. It will be hard to sit without feeling the impulse to straddle something. A certain spouse will be disappointed.

My Rapture

I have gone to motorcyclists' heaven and left the rest of you non-riders behind. Check later for re-entry.

And yes folks, this is not a mythical product. It is as effective on all counts as it claims to be, and on some that it does not.

Thank you AMB for easing all kinds of friction.

So Now What?

We are now in Palo Alto, CA. We have travelled 3,793 miles over fourteen days of mostly back road to reach our final destination. The reward at the end point is our son whom we had promised a visit. Yesterday as we set off from our perch in Morro Bay, (the first stopover that really felt like we were in California despite our having been in the state since Friday evening), I felt no joy in the anticipation of achieving"our goal." H__was excited by the idea of this final stretch, as much for the ride up the California coast on Rte 1 as by the idea that we would be achieving our objective. I mounted the bike with a semi-heavy heart since I, too was looking forward to the coast but not to the finality of our last day on the road.

The going had been tough through the Mojave desert with punishing temperatures on our trek from Barstow to Morro Bay, but in the second half of the ride we began to truly appreciate the beauty of our surroundings and some of the most enjoyable riding of the trip, and yes, that includes our ride through the Rocky Mountains. H__ says that those roads proves that God is a motorcyclist and I tend to agree with him. I think the part of God that designed the straight desert roads is a Harley rider but I guess there has to be a little bit of something for everyone. Punishment and indulgence in one tidy package... I think that H__was also anticipating a time when we would be staying put long enough in one place so that we could finally get out of our very faithful riding gear. Well, me actually. Riding gear, although essential to one's safety and well-being does not lend itself to laundering on the road. Slipping into the same gear for fourteen successive days, many of them well beyond the hundred degree mark, leaves one a little, shall we say, freshness challenged.

On our ride through Bryce Canyon a couple of days earlier, H__ had gone into a general store in hopes of procuring himself a bottle of concentrated Febreze. Lest you are thinking that his concern was for my delicate sensibilities since we were sharing a room on a nightly basis, let me be quite clear, but as delicate as possible....the Febreze attack was intended for my riding apparel. Such a gentleman, and he even offered to spray them for me, sweet smelling rose that God made him...
Route 1 was as wonderful as we had remembered from a drive taken several years before. The breathtaking vista did not disappoint and what is more is that we were beside the Pacific Ocean with its wonderful salty smell that always tells me that I've come home, no matter where I have found that sea. We twisted and wound and switched back. We stopped to take photographs, both of us eager to take a little of this back with us. I revelled in the smell of sea-spray intermingled later with pine and eucalyptus as we drew nearer to our destination. I sensed how lost I would feel and how much I would grieve when I woke the next morning and not be subject to the sensual surprises and, more often than not, delights that have come to be so much a part of my everyday experience.

Being on my motorcycle reminds me of who I am. It is a meditation, a runway, a church. It is the way in which I remind myself that I can be as limitless as I allow myself to be. When I ride my feet are six inches off the ground, my eyes are on the road and my spirit is soaring with the stars somewhere on the other side of clouds. The challenge will be in holding onto this when we are back home and this particular adventure is over.

I will continue to share my thoughts and discoveries if you will come back and read them. This particular adventure is closing but it is the opening for another.

Oh Say Can You see....

This is the beginning of the end of this adventure. We have arrived in Barstow, CA after 330 miles of interstate riding from Cedar City, Utah in temperatures varying from 115F according to my thermometer, to a low of 99F. This kind of a day is pretty joyless even for those determined to find the beauty in everything. I had almost convinced myself that I could be one of those people today but the best that can be said of our trek through the Nevada desert is that it is over and we are here in one piece. Two, actually, if you count H___. We have come close to the 3,400 mile mark and spent nearly two weeks on the road and the thing that has impressed itself most on me, other than the sheer vastness of this land, is the insanity of Americans.I have seen examples of this over and over again. Let's face it folks. Las Vegas was an insane idea that should never have worked in the first place.It thrives, lush in its hectic hedonism despite the arid, hostile environment that spawned it. People not only live there, they come to visit in droves. They arrive from everywhere in their cars travelling along I 15, especially on a Friday afternoon of a long 4th of July weekend cutting off unsuspecting and overly heated motorcyclists. They spend unbelieveable millions of dollars on 'entertainment', usually in the form of gambling. Most actually believe that they will come away winners. Are you following me on this one? This kind of illogical thinking is a form of...That's right, you say it with me.Two days ago as we drove through the spectacularly red Utah desert, I was dumbstruck by my first sighting of an expanse of green. Acres of it. A virtual oasis. Lawn, in actual fact. In the middle of the desert. Yes, the great Colorado River was the source of irrigation for these acres of tended grass, but that's a whole lot of watering in my opinion. This was an oft repeated theme and I urged H__ to pull over on to the shoulder once so that I could get photographic evidence. Luckily for me, one of these lawn-rich estates turned out to be Sorrel Canyon Ranch, one of the world's leading small hotels and, happily for us, situated on the banks of the Colorado River. Even luckier was the fact that their restaurant was serving lunch and we had been on the lookout for some sort of an establishment that in addition to wonderful scenery, provided wonderful air-conditioning. We'll be back to visit despite the extensive irrigation.

This idea of a national insanity (now don't get riled up at the notion, keep reading) first presented itself to me somewhere in the middle of Iowa when the enormity of the terrain we were set to traverse dawned on me. At least a couple thousand miles loomed ahead of us and we were still in the same country. Hell, we drove through states that took us two days to escape. Cross. I mean cross. Who but Americans could think that they could unite these vast, diverse and often ideologically oppositional regions and make them work together as one country? Isn't that thinking a little kind of? ...you know. But yet, here we are. With our own flag.

Two days ago, H__was fretting. We had booked a hotel room for the night and the location seemed so far away given the difficult time we were having, he was worrying actively about whether or not we would get there. It did not occur to me for one moment to be worried about the possibility of our not making it. "We've made it this far, haven't we?" I asked. And he agreed that indeed we had.

Some might think me insane for conceiving of this trip. Some might think that we were insane to think that we could make it at all, far less just the two of us, doing mostly back roads from one coast of the country to the other, seeing that neither of us was handy with mechanics and the furthest we had been was to Lake Placid from our home on the shoreline-- and that with a bunch of guys. I guess living here for fifteen years has had some kind of an effect on me. To those who dare to ask the question, I say "why no, I'm not insane, I'm thinking like an American."

Oh say can you see...

On the Road.

We're sorry. We are unavailable to take your call at this time. We are about to get on the road for a full day of interstate riding. This is my least favourite type of riding and the temperature is expected to be a sultry 114F degrees as we go through the desert. My camel back is filled, my cooling vest has been soaked to its limit. Meanwhile, here's a glimpse of yesterday's perfect ride through Bryce Canyon, one of America's truly great parks. Can you say hoodoos?

More to come later. Hang in there with me folks.

I Know I Asked But What's With The Challenges?

So be careful what you wish for. Maybe because I had declared myself up to the challenge the Powers That Be decided to put me through my paces. On our tenth day into our trip we have figured out the packing thing. I know exactly which corner of the seat bag holds my toothpaste and jammies. I can put my hands on contact lens solution and glasses case with my eyes closed. My camera, phone, earplugs, visor cleaner and Cottonelle individual packets all reside in my tank bag, always within easy reach. So does my end of the communication system, or more truthfully, my non-communicating system) but more on that later. Bike key always goes in the right-hand jacket pocket so that there is no last minute running around because "I know I just saw it right here," kinds of statements.

I have figured out exactly what the temperature needs to be before I can opt for short sleeves, or my camel-back water pack. Or my cooling jacket. I know what time of the day is sunglass and shaded visor day-- actually that one isn't so hard since we're headed west and don't stop until 8.00 p.m at the earliest. Two days ago I learned that when you are in the mountains in Colaorado and there is a clap of thunder in the distance, hail will pelt you with full force even though the sky is still blue (save for that one tiny grey cloud), turning the road into a skating rink.

We know just how much time we need for breakfast, where to find the salsa and Tabasco sauce for the eggs at the breakfast counter at the Holiday Inn Express and how many little containers of peanut butter and apples we can get away with taking without being discovered. We know the sequence involved in getting luggage loaded onto bikes and how much cursing is necessary, accompanied by copious quantities of sweat on the part of H__, before the in-helmet communication system will sync up. We both know that if the day's riding starts gently for me, it will make for a better day all round for both of us. I know how often to stop to drink when riding through the desert and the temperature is a consistent 102 degrees Farenheit (every forty-five minutes). My maximum time between nibbles is ninety minutes, two hours if we set off immediately after breakfast.

Clearly today I needed instruction on how to survive a desert electrical storm and steady 50 mile an hour crosswind complete with rain that hit so hard it hurt through my riding gear, and tumbleweeds that rolled across the highway as the world around turned a funny shade of ochre.

Picture this as a Spielberg production: Two riders, exhausted after a day of desert riding and a visit to the Arches National Park are pushing it, trying to get to Richfield, Utah.

Female rider in rear(seeing impressive lightning display to the left of her and straight ahead)

"Wow, did you see that?"

Male rider in lead "Grbbbl?"

F: "Lighting, did you see the lightning?" Jagged lines rent the sky around them.

M: "I can't hear you."
F: "LI-GH-TN-ING."

Male continues along under darkening skies

F: "There's an airport, I think we should take cover."

M: " WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU."

Riders are already past the light airplane airport having passed it at impressive speed despite the increasing wind.

Lightning forks in all directions. The lead rider sees it. Finally. (What the hell? you may be thinking. So does the female rider)

M: "DID YOU SEE THAT"?

Rain is falling hard enough to hurt and the wind is so strong that it is impossible for either rider to control the bike.

F: "CAN'T GO ON! HAVE TO STOP! PULL OVER!"

Tumbleweeds roll across the highway over which night seems to have fallen. They grow bigger and the wind does too. Lead rider slows but does not stop. ( I know. WTF! Right?)

Female pulls over to shoulder of highway but has a hard time keeping the bike upright. She is literally fighting to not lose control even though the bike is stationary.

Lead rider pulls over and finds himself unable to dismount due to high winds. Eventually he puts on emergency flashers and dismounts. He leans with full force against the bike to prevent it from being blown over. They are soaked. Eventually the wind lets up as does the rain.They watch the storm pass over the canyon.

F: "THAT'S WHY I TOLD YOU TO PULL INTO THE AIRPORT."

M:"I COULDN'T HEAR YOU."

F: "What's the point in having a communication system if we can't communicate in an emergency?" (See second day of trip)

They wait a long while for the storm to pass on the side of the highway while being pitied by car and truck drivers. Eventually they get on their bikes and set off under a clearer sky a full 45 minutes later on an already taxing day for another 160 miles to rest point.

THE END.

Over The Hump

It's one of those days where you feel like you've worked hard and finally the payoff is here! Nothing could have prepared me for the mountains. It's not that I haven't been through and up mountains before, and some pretty impressive ones at that, but the sheer majesty of The Rockies on the ride up through Independence Pass took my breath away. And no, it wasn't the altitutde which I have to agree blew my mind. We climbed to 12,095 ft where the air becomes thin and the snow creeps down to the edge of the road even though the temperature gauge reads eighty something degrees. Yes folks, apparently there are tears in motorcycling but only for transcendental experiences that defy description.

Imagine an ascent up increasingly narrowing two-lane roads with hairpin switchbacks, sometimes with those intent upon breaking speed records at your back and sometimes in front as well (you know who you are). My bike weighs 500lbs dry weight. Contrary to what was stated in the initial entries of this blog where I severely underestimated my load, my saddle bags weigh 35 to 40lbs each. My seat bag is another 20lbs or so. My current weight is 125lbs. See where I'm going with this? The riding was challenging but thrilling and exhilirating and I have a huge sense of accomplishment and a whole new set of muscles that I didn't see coming.

I have earned my sleep tonight. Tomorrow, the challenges will be different but they always are and I look forward to meeting them.

Tonight we are overnighting in Silt, CO. Tomorrow night? Just Plain Filth

Halleujah!

Today we reached the promised land. Actually, just the gateway to the promised land but for the moment we seem to have broken free of flat land and are finally in the mountains. I actually felt a little emotional when I caught the outline of them when we pulled into Denver and realized what sweet relief they were after OHINIANE, which is the way that Ohio, Indiana, Iowa and Nebraska have impressed themselves into my psyche.Well, we actually didn't pull in to Denver, we were on the interstate trying to make up for time lost waiting for a replacement tire. Turns out we didn't need the BMW guys after all but things in rural Colorado are a little laid-back so I took the opportunity of a looong break to do a little reading while I sat in the shade of a tree on a hard concrete slab. The monotony of the wait was broken by the intermittent arrival of Colorado good old boys of every age as they roared into the gravel driveway in their pickups. The new female greeter at the entrance to Morse's Motorcycle Shop might have been a bit of a shock but all the men were courteous and cordial.

Despite the thrill of the mountains and at being on the road again without having to worry unduly about my tire holding up. Despite the novelty of riding through a hailstorm on twisty roads, which apparently happens in the mountains with some regularity, the high point of my day was an encounter with one of Morse's customers. He was a little rough-looking, in his late sixities maybe early seventies.We got to talking and he told me that he was preparing to move to Wisconsin and that his bike was in storage. He kept a couple of photos of his beloved, shiny and polished, in his wallet and whipped them out proudly. Ice broken, he told me that he was moving to be with his children and grandchildren. He had lost his wife to cancer, "my dear wife" he said, his eyes filling with tears, a few years back and had moved to Colorado to be of help to other family members who needed him more. He had recently seen a photograph of his now 22 year old grandaughter and realized that she was no longer the karate-loving thirteen year old of his memory. "Where had he been?" he wondered. He had missed so much and now his fourteen year old grandson was having a hard time due to his divorcing parents. He could be there on hand to offer the boy some guidance. He loved his church, he told me this twice, deep emotion filling his eyes and face. He was hoping that maybe he could get the boy involved in something to do with the church, if he could get him to go, maybe a youth group...

'What's more important than being able to help out where you can?' he asked.

"I drive a truck back and forth to California, and on days like today," he said gesturing to the blue sky, "I hate having to be on the road. "

His new job in Wisconsin will be an office job. "A real job. One that I can own. One that can't own me," he said.

We said our goodbyes. He wished me well on the road and I wished him well with the move. "God Bless," he said as he turned to walk away.

In that moment of grace I was reminded that deep down, despite our differences, we all just want the best for those we love.

2,000+ Miles and Counting

So, the road threw us another curve today in the form of a flat tire. On my bike. In the middle of nowhere at the edge of Nebraska leading into Colorado. Need I add that it was 92 degrees? Luckily, I travel with an entourage of skilled and obliging folks. They pump gas for me AND as we discovered today, they fix flat tires. Actually, that's my entourage of one for whose skill I was very grateful today. True, I had urged him to procure an emergency tire repair kit just prior to leaving CT. True, too, that I had insisted that the dealer show us exactly how such a repair would be effected. I had hoped to be included in the demonstration but H__ had other ideas and sneaked off with Max to the back of the dealership while I was in the 'ladies' so that he would be the keeper of all knowledge.

I should have known that there was trouble afoot when, instead of becoming irate at H__'s need for speed, I found myself fighting back tears. Keeping up with him was a frank struggle and as he continued his roll on the throttle I became more dispondent about the ride. It was too hot, too windy, the road was too uneven, etc. etc. It never occurred to me that the problems I might be having were not due to some failure of character because such is my nature. If there is blame to be thrown around, let it begin with me. This is the legacy of my Catholic school education and no amount of reasoning or recognition can eradicate it completely. Blame my schooling for my trying to keep up with H__ as he engaged in his favourite pastime of vehichle-passing. I drew the line after I complained that he had forced me to do 90 m.p.h to keep up with him on yet another overtaking opportunity and he actually congratulated me.

In Haigler, CO as we pulled into the most rural of pumping outposts (tumbleweed would not have been a surprise) I found myself unable to negotiate a slow turn on gravel and became suspicious.

We stopped in the shade of a tree and found that there were several dents in the rear tire and that it had lost its familiar roundness which I had so taken for granted (sound familiar anyone?) I was almost resigned to spending the night on the roadside under that tree fighting off wolves and mosquitoes and having protein bars and two sips of water each so that when they found us in 5 days we would be weak but alive. Instead, I watched as H__ dug into his tool kit, extracted the repair kit and, in his splendid gallantry, thrust his glue-filled sword into the wound and plugged it. No you have not wandered on to the XXX section of the internet (you naughty-minded people) although I did squeal with delight. Half an hour later we limped our way another 100 miles to our stopping point in Fort Morgan, CO. My heart went out to H__ who was forced to adjust his speed downward in a 75 m.p.h zone. Such are the sacrifices that we make for gallantry if not love.

We'll see if tomorrow brings us a new tire since BMW dealers are closed nationwide on Mondays. Stay tuned.

WHADDYA MEAN WE"RE STILL IN IOWA?

Yesterday was our 'easy' day. That was the plan as we started out from our perch in Le Claire, Iowa. Real life had other intentions for us. It turned out to be 11 hours of groundhog day riding.Most of it interstate, which has all the charm of a boil. Cornfield after cornfield rolled by, uninterrupted through Illinois, Iowa and the portion of Nebraska that is now in our past. As the terrain grew more interesting, we were forced to detour around Route 6-- which added another hour to our trip. Through more cornfields.

Sometimes, the monotony of the cornfields is tempered by a colony of windmills. They stand in their immense whiteness, majestic, imposing, menacing and graceful, twirling their great wings in a choreographed display. I wish I could say that it is nature that makes the largest impression in the vastness of this terrain, but it is the man-made elements that stay with me most.
The windmills, the perfect row of miniature, painted carousel horses sprouting amongst the rows of young corn plants-- a wonderful surprise under grey skies and pelting rain along U.S 24 in Illinois, the imposing metal sculptures guarding either side of a bridge on our entry into Omaha that urged us on to our intended address, for these man-made offerings, I am unapologetically grateful.

I know, I know, I'm talking about Iowa as if it were our geographical reality but the fact is, we are in Nebraska. Iowa, However, is a never-ending state of mind. Iowa will still be in us when we get to San Francisco, I suspect.

Now, here's my take on Nebraska. Nebraska somehow brings home the enormity of our adventure. Its name sounds like another country, as if we really have gone on a long, exciting trip. This is the point of no return. We have done a little less than 1,800 miles over the last 6 days and it seems that there is more behind us than lies ahead of us. Riding across Nebraska is exactly like that moment in labour when a woman realizes that no matter what, things are forging ahead. There is no negotiating the process, no time left to ponder the merits of pain-relief. That window of opportunity has passed and whatever is coming next will be here...probably not soon enough.

We are on the threshold of scenery devoid of flat land and grain silos and cute stalks of corn. Once we can get out of Iowa ...er, sorry, Nebraska.

Misleading sequences of events should always be avoided. Misleading sequences of events.....100 times

There was questionable editing of the last post which could very well lead to a bickering session.
Please note that H__"continued on his merry way" should have read, in the interest of remaining factual, "H__ was unaware of the mishap and continued along until he noticed that I was not behind him. At this point he pulled up and ran back to help me before any older or other kind of gentleman appeared on the scene. He became engaged from the instant he became aware of the occurrences.
Bring on that Anti Monkey Butt Powder full force please. Thank you.

THERE IS NO CRYING IN BASEBALL OR IN MOTORCYCLING (and other rules for girls)

Today was a day of much learning and discovery. Most importantly, THERE IS NO CRYING IN MOTORCYCLING!
Here are some more valuable lessons. Today, somewhere in between the cornfields of Indiana and the cornfields of Illinois I learned that:

1. If you are lying on your back in a ditch beside your unconcious motorcycle in the heartland, nice men in trucks will stop to offer help and direct traffic around the site of your "mishap."

2. I learned that there is no hanging around to ponder one's mishap on a two lane undivided highway with a minimun speed of 55 mph and lots of truck traffic.

3. There is no use in crying in a motorcycle helmet. All it does is fog up the visor.*

4. It is possible to ride for two days in the rain into 45 mph cross and headwinds.

5. I learned that it is possible for the communication system between bikes to work wonderfully-- when your spouse wants to chat about the weather and other obvious occurrences, but to fail dismally as you try to communicate your distress-- thus allowing him to continue along on his merry way without knowing that you are lying on your back in a ditch.

6. When the nice older gentleman stops to offer his help, he will likely be the one to hear you cursing bloody murder at the top of your lungs.

7. I learned that it is possible for your expensive piece of German engineering to have a computer malfunction due to a loose cable, thus rendering it incapable of function-- even when you are in motion. (This is unrelated to the comment about rain. Perhaps if it had been a fine piece of British engineering that comment might be applicable)

8. I learned the power of two Aleve and a cup of strawberry lemonade to wash them down

9. The last couple of days have afforded me the opportunity to learn that my helmet is weather-empathic. If it rains outside, it also rains in the VERY EXPENSIVE helmet. Helmet rain, unlike the real thing, does not dry up. I hereby declare that I will not wear said helmet in a dust storm.

10. Dimples are cute on babies but not on motorcycle tanks.

11. Corn husks can survive long distance travel while embedded in motorcycle hardware.

12. Today, I learned that if you live directly on the Indiana/Illinois border, it is possible to have it be 6.15 p.m in your bedroom and only 5.15 p.m in your kitchen. H-- says that this scenario is unlikely.

13. Pray when your motorcycle's computer fails on the highway because you are SOL.

*Please note that observation #3 is not an experiential one.

Most importantly I have learned that there is no need to create drama where there really isn't any-- thus--THERE IS NO CRYING IN MOTORCYCLING!

We are safe and a little sore and looking forward to another day of riding.

In the middle country

Motorcycles are a little like dogs. They provide an instant point of connection. Motorcycle people cross the street to start conversations. They ask questions about where we're headed, warn about bad weather forecasts, suggest a particular route. They reminisce about their bygone motorcycling days or the days when their brother/father/uncle used to ride. For the minutes that we exchange words, they are along for the adventure and we are happy to take them with us.
I love the reactions of women, and of older women in particular. They are thrilled to see me on my own bike. They are unfailingly encouraging. Today, sitting in a Bob Evans in Bucyrus, Ohio, two older women engaged us in conversation-- something that happens with such ease in this part of the country. The older of the two spoke fondly of the days when her brother used to ride. I could hear the wistfulness in her voice. Did she ever ride on the back? Oh no, she replied. Did she ever want to ride herself? Oh my goodness no. And still I could hear an old, undeclared desire.
She was glad to see me doing it though and why not? she said.They offered words of encouragement and wished us a safe trip. "You go girl" they said and wished me well in the supportive way of people who have had a dream and even though they have had to let it go, are happy to see someone else try to fulfill it.

The Bickering Hour

We have pinpointed the Bickering Hour. Actually, it starts to rear its ugly head at around 4:p.m. To be more specific, it kicks in at 3:50 p.m and by 4:15 p.m it is going full throttle. We made this discovery yesterday on our first day out at around the same time that I discovered that H's-- true intention is to make it to California in three days.
For those of you unfamiliar with the dynamic between H--and me, here's a brief overview. His personal philosophy is to live life in a state of constant acceleration. I mean this quite literally. H-- has never met a vehicle that he has not wished to overtake. The full realization of our situation hit me like the tractor trailer that he just HAD to pass on an unfamiliar highway with a solid yellow line running down the center. To be fair, the line did not begin as a solid one, but materialized due to a merging of lanes. H-- was in the lead and overtook the truck just as the dotted line ran out leaving me with nothing but a solid yellow line, oncoming traffic on one side and a very angry trucker on the other.
My apologies to the fine citizens of Wysop, PA. as we "discussed" the growing series of transgressions (without our usual discretion) in the parking lot of the General Store. I blame my bad behaviour on a predictable drop in my blood sugar level. Okay, that, and because I was still pissed that he had pulled an announced u-turn at a perpendicular angle to a hill in Middletown, NY. This would only have been mildly irritating had it not been for the extra 40lbs of dead weight on a bike that already weighs five times more than I do.
Here is the ensuing list of commandments:

1. THOU SHALL NOT EXCEED THE SPEED LIMIT BY MORE THAN 20 MILES PER HOUR. ESPECIALLY IN SMALL VILLAGES AND WORK ZONES.

2. THOU SHALL NOT EXCEED 80 MPH ON UNEVEN HIGHWAY

3.THOU SHALL YIELD AT ALL YIELD SIGNS AND COME TO A FULL HALT AT STOP SIGNS

4.THOU SHALL ACKNOWLEDGE EVERY RED LIGHT.

5. THOU SHALL PULL NO TIGHT AND UNANNOUNCED U-TURNS

6. THOU SHALL RESPECT ALL AGREEMENTS TO STOP AT SCHEDULED INTERVALS.

Needless to say, the management can and does reserve the right to add to this list when necessary.

YESTERDAY'S MAIN LESSON: AFTER YOU'VE PASSED THAT TRUCK , THERE'LL JUST BE ANOTHER TRUCK TO PASS, AND SO ON. SLOW DOWN AND GO WITH THE FLOW

After a restful night at the PENN WELLS HOTEL in Wellsboro, PA we are with friends in Cuyahoga Falls in Idaho. Hwy 62 through the Allegheny Forest is a rider's dream. If this is a sign of things to come, bring it on.

Being prepared( for the unexpected)

Today was the day. Apart from father's day and our daughter's 1st wedding anniversary, it was the

planned departure of our trip across the U.S via motorcycle. Gear was located. AAA was pretty much tapped out in the map and guidebook department after H's frequent visits. We were all set to go and then-- okay, so I hadn't got around to cleaning out the fridge yet so maybe it's just as well that a family semi-emergency blew in, but still...

Our ambitious goal is to travel from the east coast of Connecticut to San Francisco and still be on speaking terms with one another when it's all over. I ride a BMW R1200R and my husband, whom we will call H--- until he consents to be identified, rides a BMW R1200 GS.

We are veteran travellers but not so familiar with the "interior" of the country nor with really, really long distance travel on two wheels.

The Anti Monkey Butt Powder (Sweat absorber and Friction Fighter) is within easy reach. If it is as effective as I have known it to be, there will not be a single complaint to register in the sweat-absorption area. The Friction area ? Well let's say that it will be doing double duty, and if successful, will likely be recommended to couples as an alternative to therapy.

Our slight delay has put us on notice that anything can happen at any time on this trip and in life in general, and that things go better if we can roll with the punches.

So tomorrow's the day, weather, fires, earthquakes and other Acts of God permitting. See you on the road!