Miles By Motorcycle

Road Report Day 77 - An End to the Calm of Thinglessness

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:48:17 EST

I said goodbye to Rachel and headed off on the last small leg of my journey through the traffic, humidity and oppressive heat.

I think I'll see Rachel again. She lives pretty close. I wonder if I'll see any of the new faces I met while Out There. I sincerely hope so, as I realize I'm very hungry because I haven't had breakfast.

"I tried to warn them, I tried to warn them all, but did they listen?", I thought as I chucked. I imagined a country peppered with "Do Not Feed the Yermos" signs. Feed a Yermo once and, like an insatiable little gremlin, it will probably come back clawing at the door demanding to be fed again.

"It didn't work out so well for Duncan and family. 24 years later and they still haven't gotten rid of me.", I thought as I remembered how good the steaks they grilled for me when I got back were.

The road away from Rachel's condo was a nice winding tree covered road that carved it's way along yet another small stream in a gorge which this time was in the middle of a large East Coast city. There were sadistically few pulloffs so opportunities to snap photos were nonexistent. It was hot and the Toxic Suit was living up to it's new name.

The bike continued to run warm causing the radiator fan to kick on which bathed me in a whole new level of heat.

Eventually, I made my way out onto the interstate, where of course, since this is the East Coast after all, traffic was horrible.

This kind of riding with all these distracted cell phone talking drives flanking me on all sides is stressful and risky. Traffic was "stop and go" for some time which caused my bike to run even more warmly. I hadn't had a chance to get the fuel injection adjusted to match the new exhaust. The radiator fan punished me mercilessly.

The ambient air temperature was not much cooler.

There's quite a debate in motorcycling circles about at what point does full protective gear become more of a risk than a protection. In this kind of heat, the potential for heat exhaustion goes from an abstraction to a distinct possibility. Thankfully I had had alot of water, which helps, and I wasn't anywhere close to the dangerous point yet. It was just really uncomfortable.

I merged onto Interstate 95, one of the absolutely most horrific motorcycling roads in the country. The stretch from New York City to south of Washington DC is just "'orrible I tell you! Simply 'orrible!!!". It's also uglier than sin with industry belching toxic fumes skyward.

"She would not like it here.", I would think as I surveyed what now seemed like such an alien and inhospitable landscape. "It's somehow fitting that this last leg would be the worst, the worst of the whole trip.", I thought thinking about symmetry.

Eventually I got even more uncomfortably close to home and crossed into the state of Maryland, my so called "home".

There are sections of Maryland that are beautiful. The stretch down I95 is not one of them. The heat continued to punish me.

I stopped at the last rest stop, filled the gas tank one last time and drank copious quantities of water. I skipped the coffee. It was that hot.

I approached the city of Baltimore and rode through the Fort McHenry Tunnel. The new exhaust note from my bike could be heard echoing off the tunnel walls. I've always liked riding through this tunnel.

Another great ride is across the huge Chesapeake Bay Bridge. I may have to do the Delmarva Loop and cross both bridges with Duncan before the season is over.

I was now in full avoidance mode. I so did not want to go home. Indulging my desire for procrastination, I stopped at Bob's BMW just to check in and say hello to Daryl, one of the service managers I know. We chatted about the Deadhorse trip. Of course, to these guys trips like that are common place. They had a couple in the parking lot that were on their way All the Way Around. In comparison, a small trip to Deadhorse is hardly worth writing home about. I had wanted to say hello to Bob, but he wasn't around. I had bought my bike from him 18 years ago and thought it might be nice to mention that one of his bikes all these years later made it up there. Of course, that is not a unique occurrance.

Despite the minor issues I had along the way, the bike held up well. It really did.

I got back on the bike and continued my way South, now less than 20 miles from "home". I rolled off I95 onto Route 1 and instead of turning left into my neighborhood I instead headed down to a diner that I rarely go to. "I still want road food.", I thought as I rolled into the College Park Diner. I haven't eaten there in years, but I've gotten so accustomed to diner food on this trip I have a feeling I will go back more often.

It was mercifully empty as I sat down at the counter still dressed in my toxic suit. "One more omelette after all the ones I've had on this trip won't kill me any faster.", I thought as I ordered. A very attractive woman waited on me. "You must be European, maybe German", she asked in a wonderful Nigerian accent. "Yup. Both my parents are German.", I replied. She smiled and said, "I knew it!". Her name is Busola, a very pleasant and infectiously cheerful person. I found myself thinking she should be a model and not a diner waittress. We got to talking and soon the whole staff and owner were asking me questions about the trip and my perspectives

The owner said, "I would be too afraid to ever do a trip like yours. Motorcycles are too dangerous.". I told him the story of the white car and of my sister. "There is always a reason to be afraid. Life is over when it's over. If you risk nothing you will experience little.". He agreed and the conversation moved to travels of his and places he would like to see, but he could not leave the diner. "The last time I left this place there were nothing but problems when I returned.", he said. I said, "There's always a reason not to do a thing" as I thought about the consequences of my trip and the disasters I feared waited for me.

I wouldn't trade the experiences I've had and the memories I now carry with me for the world.

As they worked one member of the staff or another would come by and chat for a bit. I can't remember ever having moments like this here in College Park. "I'm still open. Still on the road.", I thought as Busola asked how long I had been home. "I havent' been home. I live across the street but don't want to go back. I just rolled into town.".

We all talked for quite a while about life, risk, travel and consequences and then it came time for me to leave. As I paid my bill, Busola said, "Every day I learn something new here. But today, today I feel like I've really learned something important."

I still didn't want to go home, so off to Starbucks I went. Thanh and Jonathan were there. There were more stories of the trip. I got a cup of coffee and sat in the air conditioning for a while preparing myself to go back.

I wondered how I would feel walking into that place again having been gone for so long.

Remembering what I had learned Out There and realizing this Moment, this wonderful Moment that had lasted so long was now almost over, I donned my jacket, gloves and helmet one more time and headed across the rude and erratic traffic filled street into the small old neighborhood where my brick rambler sits waiting for me to return.

I turned left off Route 1. Evidence of the storms that had ravaged the neighborhood could be seen everywhere. Power and communication lines were down. Trees were down. Debris could still be seen everywhere.

I turned the corner onto 48th Avenue and there stood my house. It's a very small and old brick rambler set up and back on a small embankment and concealed by a tall wall of weeds.

My very first thought was the realization that my house embarrasses me. It hadn't dawned on me until this very moment that I've always had this toxic feeling of obligation to maintain it to a certain standard, a German standard. But I never have. It's as if my failure to keep it to an immaculate standard somehow reflected badly on myself as a person.

"Now that's just silly.", I thought as I remembered back to a time sitting in a bar dressed in my toxic suit, sipping wine and talking to Her.

I stood there with the bike idling for a while taking in the scene, trying to feel through that moment, these last seconds of being on the road. Looking at it it felt in some ways just like another stop on the road, as if I would soon be leaving. It did not feel like mine. But I also realized, almost immediately, that for the first time in 77 days, I felt like there were things I had to Do.

I rolled up into the driveway. Lance was there.

Lance took care of so many things while I was gone despite living in another neighborhood. He fixed the cottage refigerator for my renter, Wendy, when it broke. After the storm, he repaired the fence and took care of other issues.

Wendy, more friend now than renter, took care of my mail and watched out for the yard.

I have very good friends. They watch out for me.

From my perspective looking at this house and garage with new eyes, I realized that I have lived my life somewhat unusually. I have said many times that this space, this house, garage and yard, do not feel like mine. At this moment, they felt even less like mine. Somewhere my subconscious, or was it my heart, wanted to believe that soon I would be packed up and back Out There.

Lance is one of the most generous people I have ever met. Whenever anyone has a problem, no matter what it is, he is always there putting his life on hold to help someone else out. Sometimes the projects he finds himself working on take months. He's rebuilt engines, done head swapped, body work, fixed AC units, done wiring, and so much more. If it's mechanical or involves materials, he's the man. His ability to concentrate and understand some new system has always impressed the hell out of me. He has helped me and so many other people I know that I always wanted to show some kind of appreciation, something substantive beyond just the words.

Lance does not have a garage or other covered space to do his projects. Realizing it was something I could do, I got a set of shelves which we put along one side where he can store parts and tools. I gave him a key to the garage and my car so he can come use the garage any time he wants. At least someone is making use of it.

Our mutual friend Micro had bought a used truck when his car died. At first it looked like it would take minor work to get it to the point where it was reliable. Unfortunately, it ended up taking months to work through all the things that broke on it. So it stayed in the garage for quite some time while they got it up and running.

Another very good friend of mine, Yun, who often works on BMW cars, also has a key to the garage and free reign to use it any time Lance doesn't need it. Because of the truck project, my car had been outside for some many weeks.

Yun used to detail cars professionally and is extremely good at it. Actually, he's extremely good at anything he tries.

He detailed my car. It looks like new!

Now if I can just con Lance into helping me fix the AC.

The final odometer reading was 68,798

Compare with the first day when I left.

So to answer a question I've been asked alot, I rode 15,647 indiciated miles on this trip.

I walked into my house. My house is set up more like an office or server farm than a house. I looked around and contemplated the poor bastard who was imprisoned here for so long. The din of all of these servers permeates the house and, for the first time, I was aware how it made me feel.

Disquieted.

I looked around. I saw all these Things everywhere. Outside there was debris. Inside there was evidence of the time I left. There were packages and piles of bills.

For the first time in 77 days I was in a world of Things and I became almost immediately aware of how each Thing I saw here would steal another small slice of my life and pull my mind away from the here and now.

The basement is wet because the demudifier failed. The cottage water heater broke. The AC in the car is broke. There are endless bills to pay and a bathroom to clean. There's a yard with a broken fence to deal with. There are long term projects that really need to get done. The doors have to be replaced and insulation blown into the walls.

It's too hot here.

And it's dark. The lighting in this place has always been dim. The oaks outside conspire in their beauty to prevent much light from getting into the house.

And the sounds in the house imply money is being spent. Electricity. Gas. Water. Insurance. How much of my life do I slice off just to have these Things?

I spent a time, a wonderful time, with few Things. My physical world narrowed to what I could pack on my bike. Things broke, but it was so manageable that these physical things never drained the creativity, the feeling or the openness out of my mind. I was free to be Out There body, mind, heart and soul in part because I had few Things to worry about.

But here, here I am almost immediately overwhelmed by the hours that each thing I have implies. Thoughts of Things invade my mind preventing me from being completely present in a conversation, in a moment, like I was Out There where I could be doing what I wanted to do.

Thinking. Seeing. Feeling.

I begin to understand why some people choose to let all Things go, their lives fulfilled in other ways. She said her life fits into the back of an F350 pickup. I now envy that. I have many friends to aspire to possess greater things. I look, no I feel, around me at each Thing I possess. "Is this a thing I want? Does it help me? How much life does it cost me?", I would ask myself as I surveyed my surroundings. Immediately I feel how I did before. I feel this unbelievably long Todo list filling up again. Already, if I worked 7 days a week for the next few months I would not finish everything I feel I need to.

STOP!

I remember talking to Phil about the rennovations he intends to do on this house. He had an enthusiasm for it. It was his place and it meant something to him. I recently visited Josh who has a overwhelmingly gorgeous house. No one lives like that. It's a palace. He talked about all the work and the money he put into it. It's gorgeous and he seems to derive alot of satisfaction from having it the way he likes it.

From early on, I was taught that this is what you do. A house is a good investment. You need a place to live. Being North German, you pick a place and you move forward assuming you will always be there without really thinking it through whether it makes sense or not.

Around me I have set up, or let be set up, a life that doesn't really match how I live. I have all the trappings of someone on the Standard Plan. I have crystal and dinner plates. I have a dining room and a sidebar. I have wine glasses. I have fine art. I have couches and a huge TV. Most of these things I did not buy but were given to me.

But I rarely invite anyone over because I am embarrassed about the condition of the place. The bathroom desperately needs renovation. It's disgusting.

And I have servers. The din of the machines overwhelms any sense of calm this place might have.

How many conversations, how many times, have I not had because of these Toxic Feelings? Have I let this just be another barrier that keeps me, in my day to day life, from Seeing, Thinking and Feeling differently? Have I allowed myself consciously to get caught up in the Toxic Beliefs of materialism despite my best efforts? Have I let myself feel badly because of how my material life compares to others? Of all people, did I let this happen to me without realizing it?

Most people on my trip seemed to approach me because of my bike or my suit. Confirming an unconscious belief, they saw the symbols and realized I was the kind of person they would want to talk to.

"But I didn't see any of those things.", She had said implying a meaning I have not yet fully internalized but one that gives me, dare I say, a glimmer of hope.

I aspire to more Thinglessness or maybe better said, I aspire to a shorter Todo list which I may be able to achieve with fewer Things.

Maybe my unhappiness with this place has less to do with the place itself and more to do with the Toxic Feelings of being overwhelmed by how much I have to do for all these Things.

It was a Thursday and I had arrived home early enough to shower and change.

Not far away there is a Tavern, a very silly Tavern, that I often go to. It's a Pirate themed tavern filled with people dressed as Pirates and walls covered in swords and skulls. I remember the first time I walked in there thinking that it was some cringingly cheesy theme bar like you would see in Disney Land and that there was no way I would ever go back. That first impression quickly faded as I began to survey the people there and realized that I could hear five distinct languages being spoken. In the corner, there were a couple Germans. The guy sitting at the bar was Russian. Portugease could be heard out back. A couple in the corner were speaking Castellon Spanish. And of course you could hear English. The food was simple yet excellent. And there was something about these silly Pirates costumed people, something genuine. I got to know the bartender at the time, Claudia, who had given me the cactus task which I failed miserably at. There was Dallas, the bartender who describes himself as what happens when you combine a korean and a redneck. Dallas is great and can sing like you wouldn't believe. There's Nipper who is enchanting in all of her 4'8" glory. And there is Kyrin, a regular, who actually came out to see me off when I left.

What I've liked about this Tavern more than any other place here around DC is that you can go there and there is always someone interesting to talk to. DC folk are a closed, antagonistic and rude bunch. However, there's something about the silliness of the Piratz Tavern that opens people up. Maybe it's the unusual demographic they attract there which ranges from wounded military, to business men, to endless numbers of theatre and re-enactment folk, to costumers and renn-fair types. Whatever it is, I have come to truly enjoy the place. They keep telling me, "You're one of us in disguise."

I mentioned that I would show up. People were there waiting for me, even Duncan and Ann.

And yes, they have belly dancers there, on Thursdays. Maria, a mother of one and soon to be two, was the one who upon hearing about my trip gave me the rules. "No getting eaten by grizzly bears. No tagging guard rails. No dying.", she listed out for me. She was also the one who suggested, somewhat forcefully as is her style, that I write this blog.

If it weren't for her I would never have thought to do any of this writing and my trip would never have turned into what it was. So many things turned out differently because of that one event.

And, as I posted on Facebook, there is something very correct for my idiom about coming back from an epic journey and having the belly dancers rejoice.

My days would be filled with numbers of people. The next night Duncan and Ann threw me a cookout welcome home party at their house. Stacie was there and we played pool until late. Even Kyrin, from the Tavern, showed up. There were stories of the road and of course I got grilled about various events I wrote about. I, unfortunately, don't remember much from that evening.

I went to the Laurel Outback a day or two later and saw Rachel K, Dale, Patrick and Holly. I wanted to treat Lance to dinner as another thank you for everything he did. There were more stories of the road. I told Patrick how much being in Canada was good for me, how the people up there are somehow less stressed, more genuine and focused. Nicer.

"That's because they are not a god fearing folk.", he said surprisingly. Patrick is brilliant and tries hard to conceal it, but it comes out. "Because we live in a god fearing puritanical society, even if you're an athiest, it gets inside you. And you stress. You fear the future. But if you are not god fearing, like the Canadians, then you can just be in the moment. It makes you nicer.", he went on to explain.

Interesting hypothesis. I'll have to give that one some thought.

There has been an almost overwhelming call for me to write a book. At least 40 people, if not more, have said I need to do it. I talked to my friend Jeff just the other day who drove all the way down from Frederick to talk to me about the blog and ask me about the people and places I mentioned. It was as a result of that meeting that I got the inspiration on how to turn this into something resembling a book.

I don't know if I can do it. I don't know if it'll be worth reading. But I will try.

I sit, a week later, surrounded by my endless array of Things.

I am still at a cross roads.

I still have no clue what is Next.

Anatoly, my business partner, who I met with yesterday asked me, as so many have, "Why didn't you stay?".

If I had had a way to stay Out There, on the far side of those incredible mountains filled with vistas, critters and wonderful people, I would have been sorely tempted never to return ... I liked myself out there. I have never liked myself before.

But I am back now and there are people here, many people. who I care deeply about. People to whom, whether they know it or not, I feel Connected.

I may stay. I may leave. But, whatever I eventually decide, I will try to keep the lessons of the road inside me and learn to like myself here first.

But, at some point, I will travel many miles by motorcycle to find myself back Out There again ...

Road Report Day 76 - Full Circle Back to Rachel's World

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 17:46:19 EST

My apologies that it's taken me a few days to get this one done. Writing here at home is much more difficult than writing while Out There. I'm finding it very challenging to concentrate. There are a steady stream of interruptions and the din of my machines is distracting, but I try. Once I finish this one, I will write at least one more article about this improbably successful 2010 Deadhorse trip.

Since my time with Rachel, I've been thinking back to the vastly different people I had met during this trip and how, more often than not, each acted as an ambassador from a different world, a world I would never have been able to peer into without their kindness and understanding. I think of the pipeliners, truckers and oil rig workers. I think of an advocate for environmental capitalism. I think of Ted and Sarah at Dancing Rabbit who helped set this theme of challenging comfort zones and being better a man for it.

Back to a time when I was still on the road, I packed up my gear and after a couple of illegal U-turns found myself sitting in a diner at a window sipping brown colored water. I had gotten up early and I was not expected at Rachel's until well after noon. I had not spent any significant time with her in over 17 years and it got me to thinking more about the distant past than at any time during this trip.

"I have not always been so open.", I contemplated. "What I would have missed on this trip if I was still like I was back then." I could remember back to a time, long ago, when I was much more inflexible and exclusionary and so much less accepting of ways of living life different than my own. Mine was the right way. The only way. I thought back to that time and the experiences I had with different walks of life and how often such events would go very badly, how often I would be hurt or hear stories of hurt. That inflexibility was just fear manifested.

"But it only takes one.", I reminded myself. I understood one saving grace I have is that all I need is an ambassador, someone to take me under their wing to make an unfamiliar world understandable. Those ambassadors, if they are patient, can make you see a different world clearly and understand it in it's own context. Ted and Sarah did that. Phil did that. Robyn did that. When you are fortunate enough to be open to such an ambassador, you can conquer your fear of the unknown and the harsh judgements that are cowardly used to mask it. I have known a number of key ambassadors in my life and I am such a better man for it. I have seen into Worlds and been accepted in contexts that I would never have thought possible. But it took a first one. It took someone exceptional to make me understand that that's all you need. With a compassionate ambassador, even people from the most incompatible worlds can find common ground and become meaningful parts of each others lives.

That first ambassador was Rachel.

In 1992, shortly after I bought my BMW K100RS and just before the last cross country trip that I affectionately refer to as the Failed Alaska Hell Ride, I went to a university party with some friends. I didn't like going to parties back in those days. Burdened by introversion and toxic beliefs, I would generally hang around those I knew or politely stand alone somewhere out of the way watching the goings on from a distance lost in my own thoughts. If I was fortunate enough to talk to someone new it was always because a close friend had gone way out of their way to make an introduction. This party, however, was the one exception. On this day I met Rachel.

"The sound of the German language scares me", I overheard her say. It was not the first time I had heard someone say something like that. It never goes well so I never say anything. This time, however, I did and it started a long and very enjoyable conversation.

English is my second language. Despite being born in the States, I was born a German citizen and was raised to "move back" to that country. My childhood was filled with it's language, culture, fairy tales, philosophy, literature, structure, food and world view. I was intentionally isolated from American society so I would aclimate better when we moved back, my mother believing the old mans lies and telling me for years that Ahausen, Germany was home and that we were just visiting here. To this day, despite having spent less than five months there in total, Ahausen looks and feels more like home to me than anyplace else on Earth. I have always been closer and had more in common with my aunt, uncle and cousins there than anyone else in my so called family other than my sister. Growing up it was always my sanctuary. Bad Things never happened to me there. As a kid, it was the only place I ever felt wanted. In my core, I am still more North German than American and I can be somewhat of an intolerable Germanophile.

Rachel is Jewish. She is fully immersed in that culture, religion, world view and history. It has touched every aspect of her life including her professional choices, her studies, her travels, what she eats and how, what days she engages in what activities, the places she lives and the communities she involves herself with. But very much like Ted and Sarah at Dancing Rabbit, she has a depth of compassion, a humility and an understanding that hers is a different life than many and is not the only life. She gracefully makes her world accessible to Outsiders in a way I have never seen done with more kindness and understanding.

Inconceivably, we became instant friends.

We talked for hours eventually moving onto the topic of my impending motorcycle journey to try to reach the Arctic Circle with three friends, one of whom was Duncan. Completely out of character for me and not thinking that anyone would possibly take me up on such an offer, I said late that evening, "You should fly out to the West coast and join me for a week of motorcycle camping. We could go riding through the Big Trees."

And so she did.

(1992 Outside San Francisco)

Rachel has the distinction of doing more miles as a passenger on my bike than all other passengers I've had over all the years I've been riding combined. Then again, since the days she was riding with me, I have had very few passengers.

We rode from San Diego all the way up north of San Francisco, on the way camping under Big Trees and going on long walks. We did longer days two up than any day on this current trip. How we managed to get all of my gear and hers packed on that bike and have it look as clean as it did I'll never remember.

It was a beautiful time filled with conversation, dark humor and stories. She brought color and life into what had been an overwhelmingly gray, dead and painful existence. It did not take long for me to become addicted to her company. Never before and only once since has someone gotten inside me that quickly with such great effect. Both times involved a long painful motorcycle journey. Maybe there is a pattern here.

But in a way similar to my time with Angela, with Rachel there were unspoken yet completely understood Boundaries and Constraints. But these boundaries and constraints were what gave us the freedom to become very very close friends and it did me a world of good. Without them, I don't think either one of us would have had the time together that we did.

During that time in California I learned two things, one from an Uncle and one from my sister, that the Nightmare around me had been so much worse than anything I could ever have imagined or believed. It devastated me destroying the foundation of my world forever changing me.

Rachel, with her kindness, compassion, acceptance and infectious beautiful smile, was a reservoir of strength for me then, but I never told her that. I think maybe it was that contrast, that kindness, that made me see how closed I had been.

In an effort to show her my appreciation, I did everything in my power to make sure she had a good time.

For the remainder of that year, we spent a ridiculous amount of time together. There were a few smaller bike trips. There were also concerts.

She may look like all sweetness and light with that incredible smile but make no mistake, Rachel was a heavy metal headbanger with an unbelievable ability to win near front row tickets to any concert she wanted. I went to more concerts that year than all other years combined. Metallica's "Nothing else matters" seemed to be the theme song of that time for us, but also held that foreboding of an end and a goodbye.

"I move through lives.", she would tell me. In some ways a weekend I had not too long ago echoed thoughts from '92. I remember fearing the implications of that statement.

Around Rachel there is the ever present sense of a world that is so deeply inside her and one into which no Outsider can ever venture too far. I always sensed in her an unspoken internal conflict about the exclusionary nature of her world. Exclusion seems so against her nature.

She did her best to explain her world and I was always so impressed how she was able to get to the core human values behind a given thing whether it be a ritual, a story or some, as I called them, "silly rule". Without prejudice and without any sense that her way was any better or worse than any other way, she presented her world and life in such a way that the listener could experience the beauty beneath it all as if the only goal was to show what she saw and felt. She was one of the most intensely spiritual people I have ever met, but spiritual in a substantative approachable way, not a flaky one. Life in the presence of Rachel was simply Better.

My time with Rachel all those years ago changed me. Where before I had been very closed minded with a strong indoctrinated belief that mine was the "right way", after that time I was much more open, in a way like her, to accept other ways of being. I think of other Important People that are now part of my life who live even more radically different lives than even Rachel does. I think of Stacie and wonder if I would have been open enough to accept her if I had never met Rachel. I shudder to think how much poorer a man I would be, how destitute, if I had through closed mindedness excluded her from my life.

Jumping in time to just a few days ago, Stacie came to the welcome home party. We played pool, as we often do, and it was such a good time. She left a present for me in my kitchen which I found on my return. Back when there was a shootout on my street she was the first to call, in a panic, to see if I was ok. Stacie is one of the most important people in my life and few understand. She is simply beautiful with a strength, solidity and zen like calm that inspires all those who know her. Our friendship is deep and very unusual with the kinds of absolute Boundaries that can never be crossed. Stacie is not attracted to men and as I often joke from my own selfish perspective "it's a crying shame". I absolutely think the world of her. But I digress as usual.

Back to years ago, my time with Rachel came to an end and as I have figured out on this trip, I do not deal well with endings. She went off into her world and shortly thereafter my Nightmare began in earnest. The old man was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and was dead within 6 weeks. The hell he left for us and that was unleashed afterwards was something I, nor anyone else, could not have ever foreseen.

I crossed paths with Rachel once some time later but it was during a very bad time. Everything was different and I was unable to bring the kind of presence she had come to enjoy. We parted company would not see each other again for nearly 17 years.

In the intervening years I kept a photo of her on my wall and the candle holder she gave me has been a fixture in my living room. I never forgot what she taught me.

Some time ago thinking about her as I often do, on a whim, I checked to see if she was on Facebook. She was and to my surprise accepted the friend request. We met for lunch at one point and when she heard about my epic ride to Deadhorse she wanted to join me for a leg of the trip. I was so excited to have her be part it. It just felt right. Unfortunately, life got in the way and the scheduling didn't work out. Bummer.

But as it happened, the stars did align somewhat and I was able to visit her as the very last stop on my epic journey. There's a nice symmetry to it. Since the events of Prince George, I thought I had learned everything I needed to. With each passing day I have been proven so very wrong. My time with Rachel during this very last moment on my trip was no exception.

I finished yet another cup of brown colored water, got back on my bike and rode off into the heat and humidity, a thunderstorm threatening in the distance.

The ride was uneventful but filled with endless traffic and lights. Philadelphia is an old city with lots of stone construction. Much of it is impressive.

I rode through a funky little section of town with shops, cafes and nice restaurants. The street was cobblestone.

It took me a while longer to get to her place than I had planned. Since my lying bitch of a GPS had died, I had to memorize the route, which wasn't a problem however quite a number of streets in this area seem to be missing street signs. Combine this with slow city streets, the outdoor air temperature and the fact that the bike is running hot due to the new exhaust causing the radiator fan to run non stop and bake me slowly, I was pretty well cooked.

I arrived well done.

Self conscious about my toxic Transit Suit I texted her to let her know I had arrived. Out she walked and gave me a huge hug not complaining in the least.

I followed her on the bike to a spot in the parking garage where I could safely leave the bike. I was relieved because I had been having some concerns about leaving the bike on the street in this urban setting. I pulled off the gear and we walked into the old condo building. It had that style of elevator from the earlier part of the century that you see in movies. It has an outer door that you pull by hand and an inner grating that is also moved, manually, out of the way. I have to admit it does not inspire alot of confidence.

"I wonder what safety features this elevator doesn't have.", I joked. "It has the inspection certificate.", she replied laughing both of us understanding that it may not mean much.

She had told me that I would be staying in the Opium Den. "You'll understand when you get here.", she had texted me.

"Yup, that's pretty much what I had imagined.", I thought as I put my gear down. The guest room was decorated in a way that was just oh so Rachel. Her condo is large and may be nearly as large as my small house.

Themes of community and cooperation come through in virtually all of Rachel's stories.

The reason she could not join me on the trip was a planned three month sabbatical back to Israel. She had set up a house swap with a six member family. Unfortunately, last minute developments at work conspired to prevent her from taking her sabbatical, so she and six house guests shared her apartment for five weeks.

They had just left a few days before I arrived. Where as I think most people would complain about the inconvenience and stress of a situation like that, Rachel with a big smile seemed to be able to see the humor in and present it from a perspective that makes the listener think, despite the stress and work, that it was a rewarding experience.

"It must be really hard to have come back here after they all left.", I commented thinking about the empty house I was going to be returning to the next day.

"It doesn't bother me. Endings don't bother me because I've done it so often. There's always something next.", she said.

"Next.", I thought thinking back to other conversations.

After many glasses of water and chatting for quite a while, I asked to take a shower so I could change out of my Toxic Suit. Putting on clean clothes, jeans and the tennis shoes Phil gave me was a welcome change.

Rachel had a few things to take care of so I walked about the apartment and laughed aloud as I came upon a cactus, the first cactus of the trip.

She walked in and asked why I was laughing, "There's something I have to do before I leave and it involves that cactus."

"I am so not going to ask!", she replied with a huge smile that screamed WTF?

She had some errands to run and there was a wooded park with trails nearby. As we got into the elevator with the manual doors I explained that when I first started this trip I was concerned it would be very lonely so I thought that I should have some tasks with which to pass the time. A rather attractive and very interesting bartender friend of mine, Claudia, gave me a small bottle and, as a completely arbitrary task, asked me to bring her back the sand from around a cactus. "I like cacti", Claudia had said. I had just the previous day confessed to Claudia that I had encountered no cacti on this trip.

Rachel looked at me skeptically. Unfortunately, when we got back I forgot.

We went to a nearby nice coffee shop. I seemed like she would run into groups of people she knew where ever we went. "One of the downsides of living in this community and having the job that I do is that everyone knows me.", she said. "Yea, but it's more than that. You have a way of drawing people to you. When you look at someone you make them feel like they are the most important person in the world and it's addictive.", I replied. She told a story of a woman she knows who can do the same thing even with groups of people each person feeling like they are the most important.

We drove down to the park. The feel of the park was not unlike the PA Grand Canyon. It was deeply wooded with trails carved along a ravine. A large stream flowed below.

Despite the threatening rain we walked along the path for some time as I remembered what I had thought just the previous day walking in the canyon. "So here I am walking in the woods with Rachel", I thought and mentioned to her the 1500 foot canyon. "I would have been dead and unhappy", she commented about going to the canyon. "Oh, you would have been fine.", to which I got another skeptical look.

We sat on a boulder next to the stream and talked for some time. I kept thinking that when I walk through my life I need to take notes. There are so many stories, so many insights that fall by the wayside and are forgotten that really should not be.

Work interjected itself into her life as her cellphone rang. She's the executive director at a nearby synagogue and there's an upheaval going on. It's been a stressful job for her and strangely has involved dealing with difficult problems in commercial real-estate, so we had a lot to talk about on that front as well.

As it started to rain we walked back to the car. On the way we encountered a crazy bird that repeated flew right next to her head but she was still busy on the phone.

The bird seemed upset and would fly loops around us.

We got back to the car as we noticed a couple of gang banger looking guys hovering around the car. You could see the fear on her face. "We have a big problem here with car theft.", she said. She had explained earlier that her choice of apartment was also in part to mitigate fear. "So I don't have to worry.", she said.

I explained how I've realized that kind of fear isn't good for me. It gets inside.

We got into the car without incident. My feeling was the the two guys were scoping out the car next to hers but they didn't seem all that threatening.

"Do you want to see where I work?", she asked. "You'll be able to see what I've been talking about."

"Most definitely!", I said. So off to the Germantown Jewish Center we went.

Not too terribly long ago this building burned. I got the impression it was arson. Rachel was front and center in managing the aftermath of the disaster, making sure that the congregation had continuity and felt taken care of and, if that wasn't enough, managed the reconstruction, the insurance, everything. It was a huge job. "But because of the insurance I had a budget.", she commented. It was because of this experience she could understand how I felt during the more practical parts of my Nightmare. "I hate the sound of phones ringing late at night because the alarm at the building has gone off.", I would say as she would nod knowingly. She's been there. She gets it.

"Is it going to be ok for me to go in there? I mean is any going to mind?", I asked tentatively remembering stories from decades ago. "Sure, no problem.", she said.

As we walked in the front door she said, "After the fire, I had this mural commissioned. I wanted to add some color and a sense of life."

We walked into a room I believe called the Sanctuary which had been devasted by a broken water pipe from a floor above. She talked about all the challenges involved in putting the room back together again.

"Dealing with contractors typically sucks.", I said. "Tell me about it.", she replied.

We walked around the building and she showed me various areas that had been repaired or rebuilt. "I don't yet know what I feel here, but I feel something that I can't yet put into words.", I commented.

Because of my time with her all those years ago and the fact that I was in this building in her presence, I felt welcomed, but in a way not that unlike my time spent on secure military bases. On those bases, you want to make sure the MP's see your escort first otherwise Bad Things can happen.

Each wall hanging, each fixture here, had some significance and a tie in to stories of a very different people from long ago. Strangely, it did not all seem as alien as I think it probably could have largely because she is such a good ambassador.

"Do you want to see my office?", she asked. "Of course. I want to see everything.", I said thinking that I wanted to understand more about the parts of her life that are inaccessible to me.

"It looks very officially office like.", I said.

"I had one person ask me if I was a follower of the Occult.", she commented laughing. Look at her office and you'll notice the Ouiji board mouse pad, the gargoyle and the Lochness monster. That is just so her.

I've always liked Rachel. She has this compelling dark but very funny side that has always drawn me to her.

"I've been doing paper cutting.", she said as she pointed to one of her works of art.

Intricately beautiful.

As we left the building she pointed to a list of names carved into the wall. "With the Rabbi leaving, I had to get a contractor to add the new name when I realized my name will never be up there. Despite how much I've sacrificed and how much I've given for this place at the end of the day it's still just a job", she said.

"I've seen that so many times and it's happened to me too. If you let it, a job can start having meanings that it shouldn't. It can start bleeding over into Life.", I replied thinking of the Dalton Highway and the guys who crash up there because it starts to mean something to them that it's not.

We went out for dinner and drinks that evening in that funky cobblestoned streets area. As we walked around I said, "You know, I think I understand what it is that I feel. I felt this before too.", I said. "Really?", she said.

"Walking through those halls, seeing your place and listening to the stories I feel that there is just such a huge part of your life, your world, you, that I can never be part of. It's as if the you I experience is just one small sliver.", I explained and she seemed strangely saddened by this. I went on to talk about incompatible lives and how, at this age, with lives as well defined it's amazing anyone makes new friends or establishes new relationships. "At this age, for two people to get together one or the others life would have to be destroyed and in need of reforming. I guess if I'm ever going to get together with anyone it would probably be at this time with my life fractured in pieces.", I commented. I forget exactly what she said to this, something to the effect of having someone else take the pieces and make something out of them. I remember thinking it was a nice comment.

We talked until very late, the day over before it began.

"I'm sorry the time was so short.", she said the next morning. I echoed the sentiment. "I don't do well with goodbyes.", I replied.

She got ready for work. I put on my Toxic Suit, grabbed my gear and we headed down to the parking garage. Before I knew it my time with Rachel was over.

It is so easy to exclude. It's is so easy to rigidly hold on to the belief that one or the other way to live is the Only Way, the Right Way. It is so easy to put up barriers and shut people out who could contribute so much to a life, turning it into a Life.

Rachel reminded me of things she had taught me ages ago. Even the most foreign of worlds can, with a bit of compassion, become less so. Similar to choosing to feel the emotional impact of the rainbow instead of the storm, choose to see and feel the familiar in other human beings, not the alien, no matter who they are.

However, it's easier said than done, especially when there is serious pain involved. Oftentimes the pain is too great. I think about walking in Rachel's world encountering members of her community my mothers age. How clearly would they be able to see me or would the pain of inconceivable Horrors from the past mask any compassion they might have for this displaced German? I think about certain communities that I still cannot bring myself to accept because of how some of their members behaved when Gesa died ... I still feel the hatred ... but in time I'm sure I will. At least, now I know I have to try.

Looking back now and with new eyes, this story, this epic journey, would have just been another insignificant trip by motorcycle without much value if I had continued being a coward looking for only those who saw the world as I saw it. The calculated risks I took along the way to be open and step into uncomfortable new worlds has allowed me to learn how to See and Think differently.

Now I Feel differently. Everything has changed.

Road Report Day 75 - Strolls of Questionable Wisdom and Very Good Roads

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 15:38:42 EST

My journey came to an end yesterday. Far too quickly the memories, the calm and the focus from the road are fading. Words are already becoming far more difficult to craft. Was it all just a dream?

Rolling up to my house, I paid careful attention to my initial reactions, my first feelings. In ways, it's nicer here than I remember. In other ways, it's some of the ugliest scenery of the whole trip. Walking into the house, the din from the racks of servers I manage there was very disquieting. Stress. There is so much stuff everywhere.

I've come to understand very quickly that I am more affected by my surroundings, by my environment, than I would ever have allowed myself to accept. My old man always considered that weak, so I learned to deny this fact about myself. I walk through the house thinking about the man who was imprisoned here for so many years. Poor bastard.

I couldn't think with the din of those machines, so I'm now sitting at my Starbucks in College Park. There are familiar faces here, Thanh and Jonathan, who welcomed me back with big smiles. Yun, a good friend who helped watch for things while i was gone and who detailed my car, just arrived. He's a very good guy.

Back three days which already seems much longer ago ...

After an early breakfast I donned my odiferous leathers, packed up my gear which by this point has become a well practiced motion and continued on my way in the heat along Route 6. Crossing a bridge, I came upon a scene that captures how I see Pennsylvania.

Very green. Hills. Small quaint towns situated inbetween trees and not the other way around.

It was hot and the traffic was still ever present. I cooked in the heat.

Traffic let up a bit a few miles on and I started making good time. The geriatric drivers doing 10mph under the speed limit were no where to be found. The breeze felt good.

I clicked off the 50 miles to Wellsboro in no time flat.

I was pretty well cooked and bathed in sweat. In addition I needed to get gas so I stopped at a gas station, grabbed a couple huge bottles of water. Looking up, there were interesting clouds overhead.

At this point I was only a few miles from the so called Eastern Grand Canyon. There is an observation tower on the edge of the canyon from which you are supposed to be able to see 100 miles out. My intention had been to go see this but I missed the exit and found myself in one of the state parks around the canyon. After all the incredible landscapes and beautiful scenery I have seen while Out There, this seemed more like a small ditch. Then again, for the East Coast with all it's gentle slopes this is a huge canyon. Calling it a "Grand Canyon" is overstated, but it is nevertheless beautiful and worth the trip. The lower elevation and the fact that it's a lower latitude East Coast feature means that the vegetation is different. There's little that beats the kind of dark lush impenetrable forests we have here.

Meandering about the park in the heat and being eyed suspiciously by young children as they scurried about I came upon a trail head.

It's 90+ degrees outside with something like 1000% humidity so my former genius leather clad self thought, "Hehehe. I remember Telluride. 'Note to self, down is harder than up'. I'll do down first.". Of course, I failed to take into account that down is harder than up only a motorcycle.

For some reason, the option of not going down the path never really dawned on me.

I did, however, have the foresight to ask a very nice shop keeper whether I could drop off my helmet and jacket for safe keeping. He very nicely agreed to hold on to them for me.

So my odiferous leather pant clad self started the easy stroll down hill. I found myself wondering, not really knowing, "At what point does a stroll turn into a hike?". I still don't really know. I figure if you don't have a backpack filled with survival supplies, it's probably a stroll and not a hike.

The environment here really is gorgeous. The canyon walls are steep with what I guess is slate rock sticking out in places. Trees can be seen eeking out a precarious existence on the outcrops.

I happened on some other park visitors and offered to take a photo of the whole lot of them. They returned the favor.

"Unlike getting eaten by grizzly, getting crushed by boulders is thankfully not on the list of disallowed activities, so I can have some fun.", I thought chuckling.

It was pretty hot and I had figured out that if I unzip the transit suit pants a bit around the ankles it was much cooler. My legs were started to hurt and tremble a bit.

There had been a lack of rain in this area so the waterfalls were a mere trickle. The slate strata made for an interesting stepped effect.

The path continued it's slow descent. As I strolled through these woods I found myself remembering how much I like walking in the woods. "A requirement! If I ever have another girlfriend", I thought chuckling artificially trying a new thought pattern on for size, "she's gonna have to like walking in the woods with me."

Requirements. I've always been loathe to think about "requirements" when it comes to human beings. So many people I know "shop" for significant others, friends or other connections, the way they shop for a car. They have a check list. I guess those are the kind of people for whom dating sites work. I am not one of those people.

I'm just not someone that thinks about "requirements" when it comes to human beings. This is not just when thinking about romantic entanglements but also just in terms of the kinds of people in general.

Being open, being flexible, being willing to defer opinion and just accept regardless of how uncomfortable it is has been such a powerful part of what I've tried to learn while Out There. I never imagined I could meet and get along with so many radically different people with backgrounds and viewpoints so far removed from my own. Many times I've had to stray far outside of my comfort zone and stretch the limits of what I think is acceptable. I've even broken some of my most core Artificial Rules and now I Feel differently.

But if I had kept to my artificial "requirements", I would never have had these experiences nor would I have learned what I so desperately needed to. There's a lesson in here somewhere and maybe not just for me.

There is, however, a fine balance. There are still many things I won't accept or tolerate, but there are fewer of them than before and they are more along my true core values as opposed to my fear of consequences.

"I really like walking in the woods.", I would think pondering the state of my life.

In places the walls of the canyon were impressively steep.

I made it to the canyon floor.

So beautiful, but hot so very hot. I was pretty much cooked by the time I got here.

I walked down to the river.

It's a canyon like so many others I've seen, just much greener.

It was at this point I began to curse my former self. My former self had decided it was a good idea to stroll down 1500 feet. My current self now had to suffer the consequences of this ill-begotten choice.

Did I mention the steps? A little girl who passed told me that there were 263 steps. Did I mention I was wearing leathers? I unzipped the sides of the leathers even more in a vane attempt to cool down.

I climbed back up pouring sweat and getting hotter and hotter. At one point, I decided to take a short cut and scramble up vertically for a bit. I was completely wiped out by the time I reached the top. Unfortunately, there were bacteria warnings on all the water fountains so there was precious little water to drink and I had no change for the machines.

My thought had been to leave quickly but I was in no shape to ride. I had a little bit of water on the bike which I went to get. A couple with whom I had crossed paths on the way down greeted me in the parking lot. "I can't believe you're already up here. You must have been really moving!", the woman exclaimed. "I guess I went down and up in 1:15.".

Maybe I had been moving too quickly. Her husband, Jay, is a electronics engineer and designs computer circuitry.

"I've been programming for about 35 years now.", I said to which she commented, "Oh, you two will have alot to talk about. I think I'll go sit in the shade".

"I started out at the age of 7 learning the machine language instruction set of the Texas Instruments SC/MP processor.", I said which really got his attention. He was an old school engineer who was in the industry as well back in the day. Very few people my age go that far back.

We talked a bit about my trip. I mentioned Camp Coldfoot without mentioning the Dalton Highway. He had been following the Ice Road Truckers show so immediately knew quite a bit about the area. He talked about his wife and how good she had been in getting him to slow down a bit. "At this age I'm only doing about 55 hours a week. I used to think nothing of working 80, 90 or even 100 hours a week.", he said. This is all too common in the computer industry. Since all we do is sit around in front of a keyboard few outsiders understand that it's work and takes effort.

I too have done far too many stretches of months and months on end of 80, 90 and 100 hour weeks. For what?

"With all those hours I've spent in this technical and somewhat exclusive domain, it leaves me with little to talk about. How many people are out there that are actually going to care about stories of developing software? In the end, it's the times that you lived that give you the stories to tell", I said. "Exactly.", he replied.

We talked about money for a while, about generational differences, about senses of entitlement.

In some ways I found myself thinking that what I've been doing is very scary. I've put any and all sense of obligation, duty and work on hold. I realized since I was 7 years old these 75 days have been the longest stretch of time I've taken off. Since I was /7/.

Then again, Phil's words continue to echo, "You are very fortunate.". Yes. I believe I see that, despite all the life that has passed me by.

The truth is, if I can hold any fear of the future at bay, I could turn around and go Out There for another year or maybe even two if I wanted to.

Jay and I actually talked for quite a while. It may have been a couple of hours. He talked about trying to teach people, "I know what I want to say and what I want to get across but I get so frustrated when they don't get it.", he mentioned. That got me to thinking about a conversation I had with Valerie of what goes on inside the minds of technical people, software developers and engineers, when they work and why it seems like they don't have "social skills". I was thinking I should write an article on that topic from both perspectives. I've spent a great deal of time trying to get over my own "technical bent" and see things from very different perspectives.

It has not been easy.

We parted company. I was still pretty cooked and decided to bail on the tower. I rode out with the intention of finding a gas station and convenience store and drinking a great deal of water.

I came upon a station and parked my bike near the door and purchased a bunch of water bottles. I was fully intent on performing the time honored motorcycle ritual of loitering at the gas station when I noticed ...

So I sat down on the ledge in front of the sign and proceeded to illegally loiter with reckless abandon proud of my act of rebellious defiance.

"Good Geeks Gone Bad.", I thought as I laughed aloud maniacly. Passers by avoided me a bit more than usual.

After drinking copious amounts of water and, wisely, diluting it with even more coffee I headed off. It was much later in the day than I had wanted it to be. I was supposed to meet Rachel in Philadelphia the next day but she was more than 250 miles away from my location.

I wanted to do some good roads. On the map I had noticed routes 144 and 44 heading south from route 6. It looked like they might be good roads. Despite the lack of time I decided to keep with the plan and do the little roads. After the days of traffic, heat and suffering, I'm glad I did.

Finally, some good roads.

Route 144 turned South off of Route 6 and headed through the Susquehannock State Forest. I rode on for hours hardly seeing a single car. It was a wavey curvey beautiful road. The pavement wasn't quite to the quality of what you see in the Smokey Mountains but the scenery was comparable.

Most of the trip has been about scenery, introspection and new experiences. Roads out West are often too treacherous to really have fun on. Corners inevitably are covered in gravel because it doesn't rain enough. Large critters often camp out in the middle of the road.

But here in the East on roads like this it's about pure motorcycling enjoyment. I will have to take a long weekend and ride these roads again. Maybe I can talk Duncan or Josh into joining me.

Route 144 turns into 44 and the fun continues.

There were hills and valleys, all covered in trees.

Unfortunately there were few places in the really curvey bits to snap photos. 10mph corners and 25mph switchbacks were not uncommon.

There were sections of forest here that were so dark peering into them all you could see is blackness only occasionally interrupted by solitary beams of sunshine that penetrated the canopy in the distance. "Mirkwood.", I thought.

Pennsylvania has always appealed to me.

In places you could get a sense for how hilly this terrain is. After being out West I have a hard time calling them "mountains", but I guess technically they are.

I eventually found my way back to the Interstate and started making some time. By the end of the day I had ridden well over 300 miles, most of them on wonderful back roads.

It rode all the way to Allentown but all the hotels were booked solid. They sent me over to Vogelsville, or some such town, where I did manage to find a Comfort Inn with some vacancies. Tired, thirsty and very hungry I made a mad dash over to the only grill in town that was still open. Demonstrating compassion for my fellow human beings I sat as far away from everyone else in the bar as I could.

The bartender was very kind and asked me, of course, where I had been riding from. She too had watched the Ice Roads Truckers show and when I mentioned I had ridden the haul road she said, "You're crazy!".

She would come back by the table every once in a while and ask me more questions about the trip. Unlike many of the places I've been to in Pennsylvania this woman had a very hard core work ethic. That's something I always hold in high regard. Unfortunately, I've forgotten her name.

I went back to the hotel with the intention of writing but between scrambling down and up canyon walls and doing all those back roads in the heat I was completely wiped out ... I was asleep before I knew it ...

Road Report Day 74 - On Slow Roasting Dead Dogs

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 07:56:25 EST

Imagine the smell of a dog lying in the hot sun for 10 days dead after a rain. The toxic fume emanating from my Transit Suit is worse. Even the most battle hardened carrion loving flies now avoid me.

Phil had mentioned the suit smelled bad, which it did. After having worn it almost every day for 70+ days now it's to be expected. But after the cycles of rain followed by endless hours of being stuck in slow moving traffic under sticky humid sunshine over the last two days, now it truly reeks.

The comfort Inn I'm staying at serves a real breakfast. I'm wearing the shorts Bruce gave me in deference to the other guests. I never wear shorts.

Yea, it's that bad.

I'm going to be visiting Rachel in Philadelphia tomorrow. I'm tempted through simple human compassion to get a hotel somewhere near her place, shower, change and walk over instead of arriving in all my odiferous glory.

Yuck.

I think I figured out why everything got so soaked in the rain the other day. On these country roads so filled with slow moving traffic I wasn't able to maintain anything over 35mph for any length of time. During the first leg of the trip when I had spent days on end being dumped upon it was all at highway speeds. That creates a wind buffer around the bike which prevents the rain from getting behind the fairing. But at these slow speeds the rain comes down and just soaks everything. Water pooled up on the seat, over the tankbag, everywhere. It also explains why visibility was so poor. There just wasn't enough wind to clear the faceshield. All in all it made for unpleasant riding.

The previous day riding in slow traffic in the rain had taken it out of me. I was too tired to write and ended up sleeping late. The motel I had found in the middle of nowhere was nice. There were pretty flowers.

I had not had dinner the previous night and subsisted on nothing but cashews and pecans. The clerk at the hotel mentioned a diner down the road. It was "Happy Days" themed. I should have taken a photo of the inside. Strangely, much of the memorabilia they had inside seemed authentic from the era. It felt old.

I didn't really have high hopes that it would stay dry. The clouds menaced low over the trees. I hit the road with the intention of making it to the Eastern Grand Canyan in Pennsylvania. It was already pretty warm and humid. The stickiness still hung in the air from a early rain. I got on the bike and rode on. Route 55 through New York is a slow road filled with small towns and traffic, lots and lots of slow moving traffic. There was, however, the occasional cool bridge.

I like old impressive bridges.

It seemed like every attempt at forward progress was thwarted by yet another slow moving vehicle. Mercilessly few passing zones combined with geriatric drivers intent on doing 10mph UNDER the speed limit while randomly braking due to imaginary hazards would conspire to frustrate even the most patient riders. Then there was the tractor trailer doing 20mph for nearly half an hour when finally a two lane passing zone appeared. A pickup truck with yet another geriatric driver who was all of 30 years old, decided to prevent all traffic from passing the tailer and a line of cars 10 deep were stuck in the mid day heat for yet another 30 minutes. Temperatures would at times reach the mid 90's. I roasted.

Have I mentioned I don't seem to do well in the heat?

I felt none of that calm that I felt Out There. I want to hold on to that calm but I am too affected by my environment and today it was really getting to me.

If it hadn't been for the traffic these roads would have been really nice.

At times they traversed hills and could have been alot of fun.

20mph corners are frequent on these roads.

There were also pretty vistas.

It would alternate between a solid rain and hot sticky sunshine. In the sun, this landscape lit up and one could really get a sense of how overwhelmingly green everything is.

I find myself once again in a very different landscape. "How many have I seen thus far?", I would think.

It started to rain again. I happened upon a small pond where a strange mist hung low over one section.

It looked like a setting you might see in a horror film, the mist concealing an approaching evil.

I rode on and came upon a group of deer chomping away at some grass around a transformer. Despite the rain I snapped a photo. I had thought deer would be such a larger part of this story.

There were a number of reservoirs behind earthen dams. This one had a pulloff and cruelly where I stood it was raining steadily and not more than 10 yards away over the water it was sunshine.

Eventually I made it to Pennsylvania. "Too close to home.", I thought as I realized from this point I could easily make it home today if I wanted to. I was already pretty tired from the alternating rain and heat cycles.

I've always liked Pennsylvania. There's a blue collar practicality to the culture here.

Overheating I stopped at a gas station to drink copious amounts of water. This car rolled up.

I didn't talk to the owner.

Much of the infrastructure in Pennsylvania seems really old. A number of bridges like this one can be seen.

There are also incredible vistas of farms and fields as far as the eye can see bounded by thick dark forests.

At times the road would curve down through gentle tree covered valleys.

It would cross tall passes with the occasional awe inspiring scenic overlook.

At this particular overlook a treacherous trail extended out onto a ledge. This precariously perched tree was more impressive in person than in this photo.

Forward progress was just not being made. The traffic lessened for short intervals only to get my hopes up. As the rains stopped the temperature rose. I started to roast in earnest. I had been on the road for hours on end and had managed to average less than 25mph over the day. Realizing I was near exhaustion from the heat, I decided to call it a day over 50 miles from goal.

Because of traffic, heat and conditions, I didn't find that calm I need to "meditate". The only topic I found myself considering as I rode behind yet another Ma and Pa kettle was my relationship with possessions, with Things. I think I aspire to have Less. More on that another time.

I'm going to go downstairs wearing the shorts Bruce gave me and get some breakfast. I have considered bailing on the Eastern Grand Canyon to just start the trip to Philadelphia, but I think I can probably still make it to take a quick look, do some back roads South and then superslab it for the latter half of the day. If I don't run into too much traffic I should be able to get close enough to Philly to make it an easy ride in tomorrow to meet Rachel after noon some time.

My journey is nearly over. In three days I'll be back at home mired in the Stress and surrounded by Obligations and wondering what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. All options are open to me but I have few real answers. Just glimmers of ideas. At some point I'm going to have to stop hemorraghing money and start earning some.

Phil said to me on my last day with him how fortunate he thought I was. "Not everyone can do what you have done. Few have the means to go away for as long as you have.", he said. "But the price I've paid to be able to do this is too high. It's not been worth it.", I replied.

"Many who have lived through Nightmares like you have never resolve them. They're stuck in them until they die. But right now, you are very fortunate. I can't afford to do what you are doing.", he replied.

He's right. If I discount the past and focus only on this long moment, I have been extremely fortunate. This journey has turned out to be so different than I ever expected. So unbelievably Improbable.

There's such a big part of me that wants to pause to regroup and then turn around and head back Out There.

I liked myself out there. I don't think I've ever liked myself before.

Road Report Days 71, 72, 73 - Sailing and Rain

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 23:37:52 EST

My unbelievable streak of multi-week rain luck has run out. The last 5 or so hours were spent driving through one of those annoying soaking New England rains, the kind that inexplicably penetrates through that which had been impervious during the worst downpours.

To add insult to injury my Garmin Nuvi GPS has completely given up the ghost so I stood there in the rain with paper maps trying to figure out where to find a motel.

I had wanted to ride further to get a more convenient and less isolated motel near something to eat but darkness, poor visibility and the blinding light of relentless oncoming traffic conspired to make riding downright dangerous. I pulled off at the first motel I could find.

But I digress.

I am very tired so we'll see how much of this I get done.

Thursday evening Phil suggested we take a ride over to a bike meet that takes place at a motorcycle safety gear cafe. Yea, I hadn't heard of such an establishment either.

Phil was having some trouble with an oil filter on his BMW. When he pulled the old filter off the old gasket stuck to the block and he didn't notice at the time. So he installed the new filter, with it's own gasket, on top of the old gasket. This is a serious leak and fire hazard waiting to happen. To make things more difficult, he couldn't get the filter off with the tools he had.

So he decided to dress the part and ride his cruiser instead.

Brain-bucket helmet and all. As has been the case since I've returned to the East Coast, traffic was just horrible. It took forever to get to the cafe. But once there, as described, it was a shop specializing in motorcycle safety gear and included an espresso bar.

I was pretty tired so I ordered an Americano which they served in porcelain. I walked around and took a look at the assortment of odd bikes that had assembled outside. There were a number from the Italian manufacturer Motoguzzi. Motoguzzi has almost a cult following. This model, which I had never seen before, led me to believe Motoguzzi is finally trying to join modern times.

I've never drawn to this brand.

I also happened on a Honda VFR700, which happened to be the bike Leonard rode to the Arctic Circle back in '92. That was the trip on which I got sick and had to drop out in Bellingham, Washington.

There was also a custom "street fighter" bike which I guess was based on a Suzuki GSXR.

There was even a Ural with a side car.

Ural is a Russian manufacturer that currently produces bikes that would have been behind the times in the 1940's. The model shown here was built in 2009. The paint was already faded and the thing was rusting.

There was quite an assortment of machines and a number of people. I was listening to one old guy talking on his cellphone trying to help someone diagnose some computer problem.

As I try to pay more attention to how I react to things emotionally, I began to awaken to the fact that I really didn't enjoy this meet. It was difficult to engage people in conversation. Most riders we observed coming into the parking lot had trouble handling their bikes.

It was as if the entire gathering had nothing to do with "motorcycling". I don't mean to be critical but it seemed to be a bunch of guys squawking at each other, "Look! I have a thing! It's such a pretty thing! I like my thing. You have a different thing. It is not as good as my thing. Look at my thing.". I imagined a bunch of seagulls.

Things.

I too have a thing. I like it because it helps me think and takes me to places in my own soul that I have found no other way to reach. I do not care if anyone looks at this thing of mine. I feel a bond to it because of experience and an appreciation for the ethic, insights and design sense of the men and women who created it. If I were to design a motorcycle it would be much like the one I have. It fits me. The aspects that are important to me don't seem to have much to do with the "thing" itself. It's not jewelry for me. It's a place and a doorway. Sometimes. I like to invite guests into this place so they can get a glimpse of what it is that I experience here.

Phil calls it my meditation chamber.

We headed back and met Valerie for dinner.

The next day was much as the previous days. Phil was done with work early and suggested that we take a drive down to the yacht club where his friend Thomas had a sailboat. We fought traffic for what seemed like an eternity to get there. On the way Phil made a few stops including one at a Snapon Tool Van to see about getting a proper tool to remove his oil fiter wrench.

I can't remember ever having been inside a Snapon tool truck before. Snapon arguably makes the best mechanics tools in the world. The joke is they are more expensive than their weight in gold.

This truck could be very hazardous to my wealth.

Things! Lot's of things! And with them I could fix so many more of the problems you and I don't have.

After a tour through the most prestigious yacht clubs that Massachussets has to offer, we arrived at the club where Thomas had his boat, a 1982 Tartan 37.

I had some phone calls to make which I took care of. They were all pleasantly patient with me. I had mentioned to Phil, after hearing more of his sailboat racing stories, that I thought it would be interesting to go sailing with him. I don't think I've been on a sailboat in over 10 years. He had explored several options and Thomas had agreed to take us all out the next day.

Thomas's girlfriend, Cinthia, who was extremely nice, always made certain that we had drinks in our hands. Unfortunately, Cinthia is allergic to dogs, so Phil and Valierie's dog, Bella, needed to stay on the dock.

I like this photo of the three of them.

We hung out for a while and then headed off to an Italian restaurant. I had wanted to take Phil and Valerie out to dinner as a way of saying thank you for all their hospitality. I had stayed with them much longer than I had thought I was going to.

The next day rolled around far too quickly. I was up and ready to go by 10AM as per Phil's instructions. Promptly at 11:30 we headed off to the boat. Phil had been concerned that there wouldn't be any wind on Saturday. Luckily for us, the weather forecast had been wrong.

What I did not know is that Thomas had only owned the vessel for two months and had not really sailed it properly. The boat had not yet been really shaken down and Phil flitted about with a dexterity that had to be seen to be believed, given how big he is, to get issues resolved prior to leaving the dock. We got underway surprisingly quickly and were soon in position to raise the main sail. Thomas mentioned that he had not yet raised the main since owning the boat.

Phil has a real talent for direction unskilled labor. Together we raised the main and before I knew it we were under sail.

Thomas and Cinthia were so nice and accommodating. There was an easy going nature about the both of them that was refreshing. Unlike the owners at the bike meet, they did not seem to be all that involved in the "thing" Thomas owned. They were so much more concerned about the experience, the moment, the having guests who appreciated the time.

The sun was shining. There was wind. The scenery was beautiful. Thomas, Phil and Cinthia were endlessly pointing out one major historical land mark after another.

Valerie, on the other hand, seemed to understand what sailboats are supposed to be for. Lounging.

Cinthia was alway ready to make someone a drink.

I have to admit I liked the boat, but sailing does seem like alot of work. Thomas had been in a very nasty accident some time ago. He fell off a roof three stories up and is badly damaged. He is in constant pain and walks with a cane. Phil was endlessly moving about expending all kinds of energy trimming the sails, adjusting things and generally supervising to make sure everything went smoothly.

Occasionally, Phil would get me involved in pulling lines and helping set things. I have virtually no sailing experience and what little I have is from decades ago.

But mostly I was allowed to just sit around and follow Valerie's lead.

Cinthia sat up on the highside rail as "railmeat".

She has a little web design company but I failed to get the URL for it.

At one point, Thomas asked if I could take the wheel. I have hundreds of hours behind the wheel of power boats but less than 20 behind the wheel of a sailboat. Steering this boat under sail on the open water proved to be challenging. It would move in unexpected ways and I found myself constantly overcompensating.

Once I was behind the wheel, Phil promptly went below and tried to go to sleep.

We pulled into a harbor and after some trial and error found a place to tie up and eat. The harbor was pretty.

A friend of Cinthia's joined us at the restaurant. His name was also Phil. An esoteric individual.

We stayed for quite a while but dinner seemed to be over before it started. We were back under sail before we knew it. I was keenly aware of how hard Phil was working to make everything a smooth experience.

As the sun started to set and the waves got choppier I decided to move to the bow.

I didn't get spashed much. With the sun setting and Thomas exclaiming, "I love life.", I said aloud, "Let us take a moment to consider those out there less fortunate than ourselves. At the present moment, that would include most of humanity."

This particular rare moment in life really did not suck in the least. As I sat on this rocking boat being moved erratically by rolling seas and a brisk wind, I once again considered the fact that I was sitting up on the bow alone, no one with whom I could say, at some future date, "do you remember that moment, there in the glow of the setting sun on that wonderful sailbot ...". There are just some moments in life that are really not supposed to be experienced alone.

I think Phil and Valerie understood this better than I did..

They put me behind the wheel again. With these larger seas, keeping the boat straight was even more challenging.

Thomas suggested a photo of the two of us. We really got along. Despite his agony and ill fortune his outlook is so much more positive than mine. He doesn't seem to have any of my darkness, but then again I didn't get to know him very well.

Eventually a sailboat started gaining on us and was on a course to cross our path too close for my comfort. I gave the wheel back to Thomas to let him deal with it.

The sun started to set over the horizon.

We sailed into the night.

We arrived at the dock around 8:30PM or so. Cinthia's daughter, Stephanie, showed up with her boyfriend. I think his name was Al, but I could be mistaken. I couldn't decide who she reminded me of. I kept coming up with the name Angelina Jolie, but that isn't right. It continues to bug me. I often have a talent to match patterns and can point out who someone is similar to. I've seen someone who looks and acts strikingly similar to Stephanie but for the life of me I can't place it.

We all hung out and chatted until well past 11PM. Phil was getting really tired having worked hard to make all of our lives as easy as they had been. So we left and headed back.

It had been a very good day.

I woke up around 9:30AM the next day, grabbed a shower, did a load of laundry and then packed up the bike to get ready to go.

Phil wanted to joiin me out to the New York State border. After some futzing with my exhaust, off we went.

There was alot of traffic at first and has been the case during all the rides with Phil, the pace was disquieting. If we end up doing significantly more miles together some more compromises in styles are going to have to be reached. He just rides too fast and aggressively for my comfort level.

But with the new exhaust in place and being able to engine brake, it was not nearly as challenging to keep up with him as it had been. Initially, the bike had been running alot warmer than before the exhaust had been installed. On this ride, however, the engine seemed to slowly cool down over time. I'm not sure why.

While I feel guilty about the fact that the new exhaust does not have a catalytic converter on it, I have to admit I'm enjoying the boost in power. It can really be felt.

We rode out route 2 West through Massachussets. It's a beautifully scenec road bounded by lush green fields and forests. I didn't want to stop to take photos since I was riding with Phil. After some hours, we arrived at the destination he had chosen. This wonderful little restaurant ontop of a hill with a spectacular view.

It had started to drizzle a bit.

We had lunch and I had copious amounts of brown colored water.

After a while it came time to part company. With a, "See ya, buddy", he was off. I futzed with my GPS for a while seeing if I could maybe coax it into reviving but being thwarted I suited up and headed to points West and South.

It began to rain within minutes. My luck, which has been unbelievably improbably, had finally run out.

Reality..

Road Report Days 69, 70 - Culture, Time, and the Zen of Motorcycle Repairs

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 15:13:45 EST

I feel uninspired today. The words refuse to come to me. Doors that were open now seem shut or maybe it's simply that I've learned what I've needed to. I'm not yet sure. This feeling different continues.

The days have largely been quiet. Phil and Valerie go to work and I hang out at the house either working on the computer or trying to write. Each night Valerie, who used to be a bartender, makes drinks or pours wine while Phil cooks dinner. Phil goes to bed early and Valerie and I stay up late chatting, usually by the flickering lights of an array of candles and lanterns.

"You know how you describe Phil walking into a room, surveying and picking a target? Yea, that's how I am with shoes. I walk in, scan, select a target and go.", she explained laughing. "Silly, I know.", she said as we both laughed. Valerie wears heels, even around the house. Very tall heels. We talked about shoes and back problems for a while, but I don't think she's going to give up the heels any time soon.

Not only have I not gotten the feeling that they want me to leave, they are making me feel like they want me to stay longer. "Now I've got a drinking buddy!", Valerie says to Phil, who doesn't drink. Tentatively, the plan is for me to stay here until Sunday. We might go sailing tomorrow or Saturday. I think Phil has secured access to a 40+ft sailboat and has picked a route. I haven't been on a sailboat in years and am really looking forward to spending some time with him on the water. Valerie and possibly a friend of hers will join us. It should be a good time.

Phil is already talking about doing a hard trip up to North Eastern Canada, the "Labrador Trip", that he wants me to join him on. I'm not sure whether or not I'll join him, but he's pretty insistent. There's a big difference in our styles across the board. My wants, when I'm even aware of them are muted and held onto lightly. I am very quick to compromise for the common good. His, in contrast, are pursued forcefully and he rarely gives them up. It's an interesting dynamic. "I'm concerned that you're too passive.", he has said a few times. This forcefulness is part of the culture up here. What I initially mistook for disapproval, this "ball busting", is more jovial in nature and an attempt to find peoples limits. "I know other guys for whom it's about confidence and is alot more serious. They'll push and push to see if you'll stand your ground. They'll tell you something false just to see if you'll call them out on it. And you have to push back but do it very carefully or there's consequences.", Phil would explain sensing that I don't yet understand how things work. He's very perceptive.

The projection of unwavering confidence is also part of the cultural identity up here. It can at first be misunderstood as a lack of compassion, anger or disapproval, but is to some degree just a front.

As I've spent more time around these people and gotten to know a wider circle I've come to understand I'm once again in a very different world, one, like the truckers in Alaska, I've never had any exposure to before.

The closest thing I can think of that might give a vague sense of what people around here are like would be the HBO series, the Sopranos. Actually, I think they mentioned at least one episode was shot around here somewhere. There are stories, endless stories of people with nicknames. Red Dog, the Harley Rider who is on his way back from Sturgis. Johnny Sprockets who is always willing to turn wrenches to help a rider in need. Rocko, Vinni and other names are thrown around, no one understanding how foreign all this sounds to me. There are stories of fights, tragedy, people rotting in jail and of every strata of society. In the company of these people one feels only one degree separated from CEO's of major corporations and also almost uncomfortably close to a side of life one might like to keep some distance from. "And they were staking out the funeral tryin' to take pictures ...", Valerie would explain. Phil, having to deal with every strata in his work, is an endless source of psychological insights to what drives people.

The stories are all externally focused. They are about anecdotes, events, facts and opinions. When feelings are discussed they are also approached from an external point of view. "Yea, he has it hard.", might be a comment one would make. Internal feelings are not discussed openly. Darkness, sadness, guilt, pain and self doubt seem taboo here. Only ever so rarely is there any sense of introspection. Most stories are presented with a great deal of Northeastern humor, even the tragic ones. Phil had been in business for himself in the marine industry when a series of three simultaneous disasters forced him out of business right before being able to cash out. "I can laugh about it now, but I was cryin' about it then.", he explained completely lacking any of the darkness I have.

As has been a theme for me on this trip, I'm amazed that these people have accepted me into their lives. I am surrounded by people here who are so fundamentally different from myself that it's surprising there's any common ground for conversation, but there is.

I've come to understand that this is all largely because of Phil. He decided I was alright and pulled favors to get me the help I needed to fix the bike. He "vouched" for me so his friends accepted me. "You know, I had to pull favors to get you this help. If it went badly, it would reflect badly on me.", he explained to me afterwards.

My hope is that I reflected well on him.

There are, of course, lots of stories of sailboat racing and the maritime industry. Phil showed me a poster from one of his races. He's the guy at the highest point in this photo.

These top class racing vessels are made as lightly as possible with the assumption that they will be sailed by the best of the best. They push the envelope of sailboat engineering and sometimes Bad Things Happen. Phil is also on the boat in this photo where things went Badly.

I guess you don't know how light you can make a boat until you break one.

Phil has worked on tugboats. One that he piloted had been built in 1929 and the processes they had to go through to run that boat were simply nuts. He would talk about delivering fuel in 30ft seas or pushing pitching container ships. He told a story where a sailboat he was piloting got flipped over.

Years ago I used to do contract software development. As a professional courtesy never to leave a customer hanging, if I build something and they are willing to pay my rate I will drop what I'm doing and help out when issues arise. There are systems out there I built 12 years ago that I still maintain from time to time. On tuesday I got a call from my very first contracting customer. A third party she had to deal with had some issues. Luckily I was in a position with a laptop and good WIFI access so I could help her out and save the day. It's the first time I've made any money for the company since I've been on this trip.

Phil had conferred with Charlie and set up a time on Wednesday for me to go over there to install the new exhaust, change the oil and deal with any other issues the bike might have. "Be there at 11. You'll want to motivate at 10.", he said with an unusual sternness. I picked up on the fact that it was Important.

I hate working on a dirty bike so in between setting up SQL databases and futzing with permissions, I went out into the midday heat to wash my bike. Phil had some S100. If you own a motorcycle and do not know about S100 become familiar with it. It's the best way to clean a bike quickly. After two hours of getting the grime off my bike while sweating profusely in the 95degF sun, I once again had a reasonably clean bike.

I guess between working at the computer and having overheated in the hot sun cleaning the bike, I fell asleep in a chair that evening. I woke up around 4AM not knowing where I was, then moved to my room and slept pretty well until 8.

Waking up to an empty house, I got motivated. The stainless steel and aluminum Remus exhaust I ordered had arrived on Tuesday. I came up with a way to attach it to the bike and off I went with just enough time to reach Charlie's.

I arrived at Charlies at 11:02AM. Charlie and another guy were sitting on the front porch waiting for me. I had thought they would be doing something else and that I would just use the space to do this repair. They had other plans.

And I can't believe I did not take a photo of the house and garage from the outside. Charlie built a steel frame house and a 60ft by 60ft by 30ft high garage using steel I-beams. "I know how to weld steel, but what do I know about nails and wood?", he commented.

Charlie opened the garage and I rolled the bike in and onto a huge truck sized car lift. The man that was with Charlie was Johnny Sprockets, a jovial, talkative, extremely helpful and enthusiastic guy.

I don't know which came first, the tattoo's or the nickname. Johnny had been a tank mechanic in the army and loved all kinds of engine powered machines. He had this infectious positive energy about him. "Life is good.", he would say. He talked non-stop and told story after story. They had been working on a Triumph the day before that they got up and running. I never really got whether or not they ever got paid for any of this work they did.

"I just like helping people.", Johnny would say.

The garage was nuts. I've never seen a privately owned garage like this one.

It was huge.

Phil had said the Charlie and Johnny were the two best mechanics in the Northeast. I know good mechanics as well. Lance is amazing. However, Charlie is in a league of his own.

Charlie used to build engines for racebikes. He worked on large ships. He worked on elevators. He welds. He also cast the cylinders and fins that he bolted on to this Honda engine.

He had also created a custom electrical system for this bike. It ran AC current instead of DC.

Charlie is not an arrogant man at all. It takes a while of careful listening to begin to understand the depth of knowledge and experience this guy has. I had not doubted Phil at all, but what I had not expected was how helpful they were. Both Charlie and Johnny dropped what they were doing and helped me work on my bike the entire day.

We pulled off the belly pan and lower bracket to expose where the exhaust bolts to the cylinder head.

NOT GOOD! If you look at the left most tube you'll notice something isn't right. There's a hole without a bolt in it. Actually, what's missing is a stud. A stud is a like a bolt but it's threaded on both ends. See the little hole in the next to the exhaust top in the top center of the photo? What's happened is the stud broke off in the hole so there's no easy way to get it out. This is kind of a nightmare scenario and one that I would not have had any chance whatsoever of resolving on my own in some parking lot somewhere.

The challenge is that a hole needs to be drilled into what remains of the stud up inside the hole. However, you have to be really careful to drill it straight because you don't want to go in at an angle and drill into the sides of the hole. Furthermore you don't want to drill too far up because you could drill into the engine and destroy it. All in all removing broken studs like this is a risky operation.

The mood was a bit dampened. Charlie was concerned that removing this stud could become a major problem.

I found myself once again thinking about focus. It's entirely possible that if this went badly the majority of the engine would need to be dismantled. I felt absolutely no stress.

"We don't want to rush.", Johnny Sprockets said. "Dude, seriously, like a good friend of mine said You have to give a problem it's own time. It'll take however long it takes and we'll do it carefully.", I replied. We were on the same page from there on out.

I tried to, gently, convince the both of them that I could do the work. I felt guilty that they were putting so much effort into this problem of mine. It was not how I had imagined the time going. I figured I would do the work and if I ran into some problem I didn't have the experience to handle I could ask them questions as unintrusively as possible.

But they both pitched in and we worked well as a team.

"You fucking nitwit, make sure you don't drill too deep!", Charlie would bust on Johnny. I had gotten used to the style. It wasn't what I had first thought.

Johnny, strangely, would say he didn't know what he was doing and was just here helping out to learn. He was a very accomplished mechanic and it came through loud and clear. I felt I was in good hands.

We pulled off the exhaust. As I predicted the exhaust came off very easily. It was more damaged than I had thought. Three of the four tubes were broken through. There was no saving this exhaust.

When we pulled the exhaust off one of the other studs came out. The nut had frozen to the stud. This was actually a very good thing as it alllowed us to get a sense of how deep the holes go. Charlie grabbed a special reverse rotation hardened drill bit and put a piece of tape on it to mark how deeply the drill bit could go in safely.

I was going to do the drilling but Johnny wanted to do it. I had to monitor the drilling to make certain it was centered. We didn't want to drill through the stud remnant at an angle.

It worked like a charm. He managed to drill through the stud into the void above but no further. He sprayed penetrating oil called PB Blaster up into the hole and let it soak for a while. "This is the big difference between us and some shop. We can take our time and do it right. In a shop where time is money, they'd try to get it out right away without letting the penetrating oil work it's magic.", Johnny commented. He seemed pleased that I had no sense of rush about me.

The next tool to use was called an "Easy Out". Basically, you just screw it into the hole you drilled in the stud remnant. It's reverse threaded so you turn it to the left, as it grabs deeper and deeper into the hole it forces the remnant to turn in the lefty-loosey direction.

And the stud remnant came out without damaging the threads in the hole. There was this feeling of "Whew!" in the room.

The lower right is the stud remnant. Above that is what a complete stud looks like.

The nuts used on the exhaust studs were one time use only nuts. We also needed a couple of new studs, so off to Maxes BMW we went. I had thought it was close but it took a good 25 minutes or more to get there.

We picked up the parts I needed and then we headed over to a Harley dealer to pick up some filters and plugs for the bikes Charlie and Johnny were working on. On a shelf I saw some S100, so I picked up a bottle. Charlie asked me why I was buying it so I told him I wanted to replace the bottle of Phil's I had used. "You're a good man.", he said. "I try to be. I really try to be.", I replied.

I had suggested that I take them out to lunch. "Somehow to me just saying 'thank you' isn't enough.", I explained. I like to try to do something, some gesture, beyond a thank you to "back up my bullshit" as I like to say. I don't ever want someone who goes out of their way for me to feel that I don't appreciate it deeply.

On the way to a grill where they are regulars, Johnny asked me, "So what are you doing out there?". Having told Charlie my tale of woe in some detail I didn't want to repeat myself in front of him. "I had some bad shit happen and I'm out here getting my head screwed on straight.", I replied.

"You know I never listen to music on the bike and I don't like radios. The whole point to motorcycling is to wash your brain out.", he replied. He would use the analogy a few times. He talked for a while about his relationship to motorcycles.

"Each kind of motorcycle is a key to meeting people. Triumphs are one key. BMW's another."

He and Charlie joked about removing the stud and how engineers make it difficult on mechanics. "Any time you need to use an angle drill there's some engineer that needs a punch in the face.", Charlie would joke.

Johnny went on to talk about how he enjoys helping riders. There had been a group of Hells Angles, HA guys they call them, standing on the side of the road earlier with their "chaindrive pocketbooks" as Charlie would call them. Johnny on his way over stopped to see if they needed a hand. "I just stopped to see if they needed anything. I like helping people. Even those HA guys. You just gotta be careful. I think they were prospecting. So you stop, say 'hey, you alright' and then go on your way.", he explained. The Hell's Angles were mentioned often. I'm not sure what Prospecting is but I guess it's some initiation.

Johnny talked about hubs and wheels and how he saw Charlie as a key figure that drew people to him. One big wheel where each person in it is a spoke. He talked about a guy he knew down in Virginia that he could call if I ever needed a hand down there. "He's another spoke in a big wheel. You know these triumph guys, good pot, no girlfriends, no job so they have bunches of time to run out and help people.", he joked. He had mentioned being single a number of times.

We arrived at the grill. The food was good.

Johnny ordered a drink. "You fucking nitwit! You have a drink and you're worthless.", Charlie would later joke.

We went back to the shop. Charlie has an array of bikes, a Ducati Monster, a Harley and an Aprilla.

We went back to the garage parts in hand. Charlie and I got to work bolting on the new exhaust. It fit perfectly.

We put on the muffler and tightened everything down to spec. All in all it the repair job worked out very well. Actually, it went much much better than I had hoped.

"Damn that's beautiful. You have a beautiful bike. What a nice machine.", Johnny would say multiple times. Even Charlie seemed impressed with my flying brick.

I fired it up. Below three thousand RPMs this exhaust is noticeably louder than the stock exhaust. I have a feeling passengers are going to need to wear earplugs, but I rarely have passengers. Maybe that'll change, however.

I prefer very quiet bikes. I have no need to make my presence known when I arrive. So I'm not sure how I feel about this more aggressive, throatier sound the bike makes. I'm a little self conscious about it, but unfortunately my options are to use this exhaust or get another bike. And I'm not about to get rid of my bike yet. I love it too much.

Strangely, Charlie, Phil and Johnny all refer to my bike as "she". Interesting.

I remembered thinking, if I was with someone who developed cancer and needed an operation that would make them look different would I trade them in because of it?

Hell no.

I let the bike warm up and then did an oil change. The lift was lowered and I took it for a test ride. It was nice to be able to engine brake again. I hadn't realized how much not being able to do that was dampening my enjoyment of the bike. I guess I'll get used to the sound of the exhaust and will just make sure to carry spare earplugs for passengers.

Every Wednesday, bunches of riders gather at Charlie's for an evening of food, drink, turning wrenches and swapping stories. About 10 people showed up. Usually there's more than 20 I was told.

Phil arrived to change the oil on his bike. So up on the lift it went.

Other riders arrived. I have forgotten everyone's name already. One guy rode up on an Aprilla that had over 100k on the clock. Instead of repainting it he covered the bike in Rhino-coat, which is a product used to harden pickup truck beds. It created a nearly indestructible surface.

The evening progressed. More riders showed up. I was distracted by problems with my customer. The third party needed some more work done and I knew she was behind schedule. However, after all the kindness and work they had put in the last thing I wanted to do was to be rude.

At one point Phil walked over and chided, "Man, you gotta put that droid away. These old timers think that's really rude.".

I put the thing away and sat down with the others now very concerned that I had offended them.

I sat and listened to stories of barges, engines, tug boats, sail boat incidents, motorcycle races, parts, machining and all manner of other "guy stuff". More than once Johnny could be heard saying to Charlie, "Man, I didn't know you did that. You're a fucking Einstein." The humor was ever present. There was alot of laughing and busting each other's chops. But there was also this very strong sense of a code of conduct, a set of unspoken rules I had not yet been introduced to. Think Sopranos. There was this feeling that there are just some things you have to know in order to get along with these guys and I often felt out of the loop. I guess it's something you have to grow up with. There was alot of joking, but it was in a style I wasn't comfortable trying to emulate. It's too easy to make a mistake and have it come across wrong. So I withdrew into my introversion and just listened.

Concerned as always how I came across given the generosity I received I checked with Phil. He seemed to think they all liked me. It came time to leave, but Johnny was insistent I watch some race footage of some bikes he had put together. It was pretty cool. I'll have to get the link from Youtube. Before I left he gave me all of his contact info. Phil said, "If they didn't like you they wouldn't have given you the send off they did.".

As we were about to leave, Charlie and Johnny came up smiling to shake my hand and wish me well.

I do hope to see both of them again.

Road Report Days 66, 67, 68 - Riding with Phil and Charlie - Books, Covers and Goals

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 20:01:08 EST

I feel my trip winding down. This wonderful fantasy is slowly ending and the angry face of reality is peering at me with malice from just over the horizon. Like the child I once was cowering beneath the covers slowly waking from a fading dream where I was calm, happy and safe, I try to lie motionless hoping stasis will hide me from the horrors unfolding elsewhere in the house and keep them from knocking at my door.

But they always came knocking. My mind begins to dread what's waiting for me when I get home. Reality.

"Was any of it real?", I wonder as the sharp memories of moments along the way begin to fade into a smeared collage of feelings, good feelings.

"The man who returns will not be the same man who left.", I keep thinking wondering if I really have changed anything. I do feel differently. Strangely, I feel that I exist. That's different. Previously, even as recently as before I left on this trip, I believed to my core that I didn't really matter. My thoughts, insights, ideas and presence had no lasting value or impact. What I said was irrelevant. I think I've learned that maybe this was a Toxic Belief. I've been simply floored time and time and time again by what people have told me. Old friends, strangers, new friends. Comments on facebook. Emails and text messages I've received, even as recently as today. I realize that I haven't been listening, or maybe better said I've been listening but not hearing. The words were there, even Her words, but I could not understand them. A verse of a Simon and Garfunkel song keeps going through my head:

And a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest

I disagree. A man hears what he expects to hear, what has been drilled into his head over and over again since childhood. It's very hard to get past that. But I think I'm beginning to hear and understand and I have to admit I feel offbalance because of it. The impact is too great, the change in perspective, in emotional identity, to drastic.

I am back in the United States now. The transition has been instantaneous and brutal. The open faces of interested people who acknowledge your presence with a nod and a smile as you walk by have been replaced by frowns and angry grimaces. It's as if my very presence in their field of view is an unwanted inconvenience. Most walk by completely removed from where they are, their minds anywhere but right here and now.

The Harley Riders no longer wave. There is endless traffic and the sounds of horns. The Stress can be felt everywhere.

What strikes me most are the women. You can feel the Fear and Distrust even from a distance. It's striking and bothers me.

Canadians are not afraid. It was so good for my soul. I loved it.

The distance got inside me quickly. I remember distinctly the first face I saw, a man walking out of a gas station convenience store glared at me. Without showing anything externally, I was taken aback and instantly retreated, remembering how not to smile. I found myself thinking that maybe I'm like an amphibian, unshielded from the environment. It flows through me. If the environment is healthy, I'm healthy, but if it's toxic, I quickly get sick. A man is not supposed to be like that.

I'm just outside Boston now in a place called North Andover staying with Phil and his fiancee, Valerie. They have been so nice, so generous and accommodating. I'll be here for a few days while I try to repair my fractured and much older feeling motorcycle. In the mean time, I finally have some quiet time to write.

Comments on the blog have died down a bit because I haven't been posting, but I continue to get encouraged to write. An old friend sent me a message on facebook saying that some of my posts inspired her to take an Emotional Risk, something that she would never have felt confident enough to try, and it worked out ok for her. "Not great but not bad.", she said. As I read what she wrote, I found myself thinking the really important part, the part I have to remember, about taking emotional risks is what happens when they go badly. What happens when the rejection, the misunderstandings, and the bad feelings come? "If it hasn't gone badly you probably haven't tried hard enough.", I found myself thinking paraphrasing an old motorcycle adage.

I found myself thinking, mostly addressing myself, that the important thing to remember when a risk goes badly, when you're left with an open gaping wound, is to not to let toxic beliefs cloud the event to make it a statement about yourself as a person. Maybe it went badly and it hurt. Does it mean you're a failure, too ugly, too fat, too skinny, too dumb, too smart, too short, too extroverted, too introverted, too whatever? Does it mean you're unworthy? It's so very easy for me to let my mind wander in the direction of the negative where I hear long dead voices speak to me from the grave to tell me I'm a failure and that this event, whatever it is, is just another manifestation of the existential failure I represent. "Yermo, do me a favor. Whenever you think that, whenever you hear your old man telling you you're a failure, remember some of the stories you told me about the venture capitalists who thought you were amongst the best.", Phil said while we were sitting at the bar one evening revealing a more insightful and compassionate side of himself than you would think possible.

Maybe it went badly and hurt just because you tried and occasionally that happens?

I find parallels in everything. I've often said business is just applied psychology. During the dot-bomb era I used to talk to venture capitalists. Everyone would tell me, "If you don't have three failures under your belt most VC won't talk to you.". Interesting parallel. If you didn't risk it three times and acquired the failures, they wouldn't talk to you.

Maybe it went extremely well but it still hurt because you're left with a hole that used to be filled with the presences of a wonderful person. It's easy to fear pain. It's harder to let the hurt come, to feel it and to move on without letting it fracture you inside. But what do I know? I'm still an emotional coward, well maybe a little less of one now.

Days ago we made a short stop over at a nice Best Western resort in Michigan on Lake Superior to wait for Phil's friend Charlie to arrive before heading up and over the Great Lakes.

You could tell Phil was excited to see his friend. Whenever he talked about Charlie there was this unusual respect and admiration in his voice. That he looked up to Charlie was evident. Phil went out of his way to secure Charlie a room with a lake view. He also made certain that a bottle of Wild Turkey was waiting for him.

There was a little balcony. "You got him a much nicer room that we have.", I mentioned.

"You see this view here, over in that direction where you see nothing but water.", he commented.

"Yea, I see that", I replied.

"Well, I've spent enough of my life looking at that. I don't need to see it anymore.", he explained. Yea, I had forgotten for a moment how many years Phil had spent on the ocean.

Charlie eventually arrived. He had ridden something like 600 miles that day to get here. He was older than I had imagined from Phil's descriptions and talked like the trainer from the Rocky movies. He had a gruff and ball busting demeanor to him. The way he spoke often made him difficult to understand.

Invoking a feeling I had when I walked into Dancing Rabbit, I thought, "What have I gotten myself into now?" as I imagined every Harley riding stereotype I had been exposed to. The first impression he made was rude, aggressive and very very old school. In some ways he initially fit the stereotype of an old construction worker or truck driver. He talked about fights, drinking, and getting into trouble. And this was all in the last 5 days. He had escorted a friend of theirs to Sturgis for the annual Harley gathering out there. From the stories it sounded like their time was "eventful".

"Then this idiot took a swing at me. So I knocked him down and started punching the guy while holding the other four back with my other arm.", he would say. You were never quite sure when he was talking what was true and what was exaggeration. As I got to know him better and realized that first impressions can be very deceiving, I began to understand more of his stories were true than not.

What he had to say about women fit the stereotype as well and took me aback. Phil had explained the blog to him in surprisingly positive and insightful terms, clearly showing that he had not skipped over all the "mushy parts" as he put it.

I explained to him how this blog came about; how I had all these female friends who wanted me to touch base to let them know I was still alive; how one suggested to make it easier I should write a blog. Since the initial audience was mostly women that set the tone for what I wrote. "Friends? She's only my friend if she's on her knees <fill in inappropriate comment here> You only have female friends if you're gay.", he said. But then he went on, hinting that there was more to him than what was visible, "But it's a generational thing I guess." He would joke later on in a self-defacing way about some of his female friends. You could just never tell when he was serious or when he was trying to get a rise out of you.

Over the last many years I've had to deal with the consequences of the actions of Bad Men. I realized at this moment that as a result of this I've become closed and will quickly dismiss anyone that even slightly invokes anything that reminds me of those Bad Men. How I evaluate men has a lot to do with how they treat women and I am too quick to judge and even quicker to dimiss, to my own detriment.

I'm trying not to do that anymore. I'm trying to be more open minded and less judgemental. At times it's caused me to cringe as I thought about how some of my very important female friends would feel if they heard some of these comments.

I'm glad I stayed open minded. There's a big difference between appearance, bravado and action. In the case of these guys, it's important to separate out the three. Charlie, once you get past the surface, past the gruff exterior, is a surprisingly complex, helpful, intelligent and compassionate guy and I really enjoyed his company.

We headed out with Phil taking the lead. I was in the middle with Charlie taking up the rear. We had 1300 miles to cover in three days. This was not horrendous but there was the constant stress of having a goal with an implied timeframe. The calm was gone and we needed to cover miles.

There was little time for stopping. Phil kept trying to tell me I could stop and they would wait but my own beliefs on the subject got in the way. I hate being left behind especially when I don't know exactly where we're going. Phil would pass multiple cars leaving me stuck behind slow moving vehicles. His bike easily out accelerates mine and I found it difficult to pass when he did. These incompatible riding styles combined with my broken exhaust and questionable brakes caused it to be a ride with little calm and no time to think.

We did end up talking about it and he slowed down the pace to accommodate my riding style and I tried to speed it up staying well within my abilities but going outside of my comfort zone.

I was concerned about Charlie. On his way to Sturgis he had hit a slick of diesel fuel that had been spilled in an off ramp. He managed to keep the bike upright but had to put his foot down. He twisted his hip and was in a lot of pain but hardly showed it. You had to pay attention to notice it. He's one tough bastard, as he would say.

We eventually made it back into Canada. Even the border has flowers.

I like Canada, as I keep saying. We rode on for quite a while to reach North Bay. Route 17 up to North Bay is a busy traffic laden opposing traffic highway. It was not a quiet ride. Until this leg of this trip, it had been an internally focused journey. Riding in this way I found I couldn't lose myself in thought. I had to remain externally focused.

We eventually reached North Bay and found a hotel and something to eat. Phil's work is challenging and events at work were conspiring to keep his mind elsewhere despite his best efforts not to let that happen. We got two rooms. Phil had his own room and Charlie and I split one.

Phil had to work so Charlie and I sat outside, he with his bottle of Wild Turkey and me with a bottle of Johnny Walker Black. As we sat there and he talked I realized that there was much more to this man than meets the eye. "Books and Covers", I thought as I listened to him.

"The computer industry has changed. I used to do device driver programming in assembly. Back in the day you could get good money programming. But now, now it's not so easy. You have to have a niche.", he commented. He was an x86 assembly language programmer. For those that don't know what this means, it means he was a hard core professional programmer, a geek like myself.

It also turned out that Charlie had work as an elevator mechanic and I believe was somehow involved in a trucking company. He's also an accomplished auto and motorcycle mechanic.

And he can ride a motorcycle.

He's not brand loyal in the least. "Maybe I'll put on my power ranger suit.", he would say meaning his Aerostich Roadcrafter. I've never heard of a "Harley guy" who owned a Roadcrafter. Roadcrafters are owned by long distance touring guys who ride BMW's.

He had also ridden up to the Dalton Highway. He made it as far as the Yukon River Camp on his Harley but because of rain decided to turn around. We talked about the roads up there and various places he had stopped. "I love the women up there. I can talk about cylinders, pistons and crankshafts and they know what I'm talking about. It's heaven!", he would say while in the same breath mentioning he's been married for 40 years. Not many people can say that.

"Why didn't you ride the Aprilla?", Phil would keep asking him. Charlie owns an Aprilla sport bike and a Ducati Monster cafe racer, the same bike that Ian rides.

Charlie is not a Harley guy. He's just a guy who happens to own a Harley and had chosen to ride it on this trip because his friend, Red Dog, is immersed in that culture and wanted to be seen with anther Harley rider. So Charlie dressed the part.

Like so many, Charlies eventually asked me why I was out here. "So what's your story? Divorce? Lost your job?", he asked. "None of the above. It's a bad story. You sure you want to hear it?", I asked trying to do something new and not burden the evening with my darkness. "Yes.", he said.

So I told him trying to maintain a more "guy appropriate" detachment from the story. I glossed over the really bad stuff but gave him enough of a run down for him to get it.

"That's horrible. I'm truly sorry. But now you're 42, starting from scratch and life's half over.", he said. He went on to ask how I felt about being alone and facing old age without any one to take care of me. "It is what it is.", I replied thinking about my future prospects and the reality waiting for me. His comments kind of woke me up to a reality I've not been thinking about.

"42", I thought.

I managed to sleep fairly well that evening, finally. They let me sleep until past 8:30. Phil's rear tire had worn out so he had gotten up early to get it replaced. I worked on trying to re-patch my exhaust. It had been getting louder. The #1 tube was loose again. I used some tin and a clamp along with some bailing wire to shore it up.

The wrap had turned into something that looked like a blood soaked field dressing.

Phil came back and we started the ritual of packing the bikes. Phil's work still dominated his thinking despite his best efforts.

Phil and Charlie were constantly busting on each other. "Why are you busting my balls?", was a frequent comment each would make. Charlie and Phil would give me shit from time to time but I would often misunderstand it as serious criticism. It took a while for me to catch on.

I'm slow like that because, like I keep saying, I'm a fucking genius.

The weather was warm but beautiful. The roads were less crowded on this day. We had agreed, since I had been having trouble sleeping and had been the walking dead over the last few days, to take breaks every 100 miles. Charlie seemed to appreciate this.

On one of these breaks we stopped at a lake. We had been seeing Harley riders in droves all day. They were all going to Sturgis, the huge annual Harley gathering out West.

Phil and his bike with water in the background. He always seems drawn to anything having to do with the water.

Maritime customs and insights dominate this man. It's evident in how he packs his bike to how he navigates. If there's something involving naval history he's automatically drawn to it.

I remember some days previously at the Edmund Fitzgerald Bell display at the museum how he became strangely reverant and deeply respectful. "You always know it can happen but to see this. It raise the hair on the back of your neck.", he would say.

At the next 100 mile stop Phil approached some divers. It turned out that right there next to the shore was a wreck that they had set up as a dive location.

There was a line secured to the beach that led to the wreck. Looking out from the shore you there was no indication of what lay beneath the water.

We rode over the bridge that led back to the USA.

We crossed the grate bridge slipping and sliding over the steel mesh. I took one wistful look back knowing that it was going to be some time before I will see Canada again. I'm going to miss that country and the wonderful people in it.

We found ourselves in New York state in a changed landscape. The roads were even more crowded as we weaved our way around small mountains and through beautiful valleys. The intention had been to reach Lake Placid so we would not have to do too many miles the next day. Unfortunately, there were some events in town and all hotel rooms were booked.

Phil eventually found three inexpensive rooms in a large Bed and Breakfast without the Breakfast part. It was an old building with awesome balconies but with shared bathrooms. The rooms were very small but comfortable.

There was a nice Italian restaurant down the hill. We managed to get a table just before they closed. "Dinner's on you tonight.", they said. Yup. They had treated the nights before. No problem.

As has been the case on this trip, dinner cost some money. It wasn't too bad but it wasn't cheap either. "Shit, I don't have glass for my bourbon.", Charlie complained. Phil threw me one of the glasses from the table and said, "Hide this.".

Grand Theft Drinking Glass. I put the glass in my jacket and with an extremely guilt laden expression on my face snuck outside with it. "I haven't stolen a single thing, not even a salt shaker, since I was a teenager!", I said. As a teenager sitting at dinner with Mimi I once stole a salt shaker. Yea, I'm one of those guys.

Phil and Charlie thought this was hilarious. "How much did you pay for dinner?", Phil asked. "Yea, you didn't steal the glass."

We went back to the B&B without the B and hung out on the balcony and talked. I've been trying to remember how he phrased it, but talking about my bike with an almost reverant tone, Charlie said something like "She proved herself well." It's been a very long ride. It's funny, Phil and Charlie refer to almost everything as "She".

Charlie had accidently left his alarm set to 5AM. When it went off in the next room I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. I was up and out of the room around 8AM.

We packed up the bikes and headed out.

"Charlie hates ferries. He hates boats.", Phil explained.

"You sure the bridge is finished?", Charlie asked incredulously.

"Yea, it opened last month. The ferry's been shut down.", Phil replied emphatically.

Some hours later we found ourselves on the ferry. "You bastard.", I could just hear Charlie thinking. "Damn ferries. What is it with you and damn ferries?", Charlie complained.

"If I hadn't told him the bridge was finished he would never have agreed to go this way.", Phil said chuckling at his deception.

We were now in Vermont. The landscape had changed again.

The roads here in the Adirondack mountains and surrounding area were simply great motorcycling roads. For sheer "sport of motorcycling" nothing beats the East Coast. These roads would rival the Smokey Mountains if it weren't for the ice heaves and tar snakes everywhere. It gets cold up here.

The roads were great nevertheless.

The roads alternated between small twisties through gentle sloping peaks to long stretches through green valleys.

We took our mandatory 100 mile stop at a small pond.

It was extremely pretty hear. "Serene.", Charlie said.

There was this floating flower garden.

We rode on. Phil said that his fiancee had gone shopping to accommodate my diet and was making a chicken dinner. "Wow, that's really nice.", I thought as I found myself a bit concerned what she was going to think about this guy who was invading her house.

We rode on for another 100 mile stretch rushing a bit to make it to Phil's house before it got too late. I was starting to get used to the riding style. There were a number of times we were riding well outside of my comfort zone. There's always this conflict between not wanting to slow people down and not wanting to get yourself in trouble.

I thought about how disquieting all this was. We had a fixed goal and I felt like I had to accomplish this goal. Toxically I found myself getting distracted by other feelings of not wanting to let Phil down or disrespect his hospitality. I was pretty tired though.

I found myself thinking quite a bit about the nature of goals and how goals can take on a life of their own when they are held onto too tightly. Deadhorse was a goal, but because it was a goal I could abandon at any moment I was able to take the time to be calm. It allowed me to consider alternatives. It allowed me to be at peace. As a result, as a result of not holding this goal too tightly, I was able to approach something others considered difficult and enjoy it.

And I think that's the distinction. We are taught to be goal oriented. We are trained to pick a goal and put our all behind it to achieve that goal with laser narrow focus. Most goals are choices. And it's important to distinguish a goal that's a choice from a goal that's not. During my Nightmare, I had one all encompassing goal that was not a choice. But somewhere along the way I lost the understanding that this goal was not a reflection of my identity. Accomplishing this goal took over my life. It became everything. As a stresses mounted, I withdrew more and more to focus exclusively on accomplishing this goal. I terminated relationships. I pulled back from friends. I lost others. I put everything I had into this and I accomplished what I set out to do.

But what do I have to show for it?

I have seen friends go through this with choices. They let jobs, careers or other goals consume them to such a degree that achieving the goal has become core to their identity.

For me, I don't think I ever want to choose a situation where I have to be so driven towards a goal that I make my life toxic. I've done that for far too long. Hopefully, from here on out any goals I take on will be ones that are of my own choosing. I hope that I will be able to approach them the way I approached the Dalton.

I want to hold on to these things loosely so that maybe, just maybe, I can maintain this calm and peace I have come to enjoy so much. At least for me, I find it much easier to achieve what I set out to achieve when I allow myself the emotional option to stop at any moment. Otherwise, for me, the goal becomes toxic and comes to mean more than it should.

The Dalton Highway is just a road. It's not a statement of identity, or worth or status. It's just a road. I hope to do in life, in relationships and in work what I did on that road.

Lance always says, you have to give problems the time they need. I want to give Life the time that it needs.

We stopped at our last 100 mile stop for the day. Charlie had decided not to join us for dinner. We said our "see ya laters" and he was off.

I followed Phil through dirty rundown city sections and beautiful tree lined neighborhoods to his house in North Andover. We rolled into the garage. It had been hot. Having been riding in my leathers for weeks on end now, they reeked.

We unpacked our bikes and walked upstairs where I met Valerie, his fiancee. She's an attractive slender woman with red hair and that Boston accent one would expect. She had gone shopping and had spent some hours cooking up a chicken dinner. She told Phil in a barrage of information fashion about the events that transpired while he was gone. She made a bubbly cheerful and social first impression. I unpacked my gear, changed and pulled out the laptop.

They have a carrot eating dog. Have you ever seen a carrot eating dog?

Dinner was really nice. I was concerned that my reserved and introverted nature would be misunderstood. She, like Phil, is really outgoing. I was also dead beat tired. Again I thought about books and covers.

After dinner, with a demeanor completely different from the one she had when talking to phil, she asked me directly with a seriousness and intelligence that had not yet been revealed, "So are you going to write a book based on your blog?" The evening took a very different turn from what I expected.

Phil had turned down the lights and I mentioned offhandedly, "Candles would be really cool now.". Apparently I had said a magic word. The next thing I knew, Valerie pulled out a bunch of candles and we were all bathed in that comforting flickering glow.

Phil went to bed so Valerie and I moved out onto the balcony.

She works in sales for a datacenter company and demonstrated that she has alot of experience doing sales and establishing funnels for larger organizations. It was impressive especially considering how young she is.

She had been reading a few installments of the blog and was very complimentary. "I mostly skip the motorcycling parts.", she said preferring to focus on my musings. "There's something in there for everyone. It's really not just a motorcycle story." She described what she liked. "If you had any idea how uncomfortable I feel when I write. How it all feels wrong. How I cringe sometimes at what I write, I think you would be amazed. But I decided early on just to write about whatever happened, whatever I happened to be thinking about.", I replied.

She went on to explain how I could provide more backstory and detail on my musings in a book format and that maybe I should include the commentary from facebook and others in each chapter. She seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. We talked about goals and how toxic they can be. We talked about the renovations they are doing to the house to her thoughts on marriage and friends of hers. She's also living a Non-Standard Plan.

She talked about Phil quite a bit with insight and compassion. "I really liked how you said he walks into a room, surveys it and then picks a target. That's so him!", he explained. She went on to explain how excited he was about my trip. "He read your blog every day. Once he decided to go out and meet you he got really excited. It's nice for him to make a new friend. At you guys age making new friends doesn't happen very often. I think it's so cool you guys were able to do this together.", she explained.

She seemed genuinely excited for the both of us. "That's pretty cool.", I remember thinking. I went on to think about my life and how it's true, at this age, with lives settled as they are it's difficult to make real new friends. Will I see any of the people I met on this trip again? Maybe I'll see Dani or Rick. There's Hans who's been following me on facebook and comments from time to time. I really appreciate that. Will I see any others? I don't know.

I thought about romantic relationships. At this age, if it's difficult to make new friends, getting into new relationships is nearly impossible. Lives are so fixed and constrained by obligations, goals, lifestyle, habits, distance and other things that get in the way of two people just being able to enjoy each others company. One would have to find someone who's life is already structured in a way that would work. But when you are on the Non-Standard plan the way I am and your life is this broken there are few compatible lives out there.

"If two people in their 40's get together in some kind of substantive way, it would be when one or the other is going through an Upheaval, some great change in their life. It would have to happen when what they've built their lives on has come crumbling down and needs to be rebuilt.", I thought as I considered how undefined my existence moving forward is. Maybe this is why single older men get together with younger women. The lives of those women are not yet fully formed. Maybe it happens because it can.

Then again, right now my life is fractured and lying in a pile of shards on the floor. I wonder how I can reforge it into something that I might be able to enjoy. I think that's the challenge.

All options are open to me now, I guess. I feel it a bit more now than before but still not clearly enough.

My exhaust system arrived a little while ago. It doesn't look like I'm going to be able to secure new brake rotors quickly so I may just have to run the rotors I have. The brakes are deteriorating but it doesn't look like I'm going to be taking any passengers.

I was hoping to spend a few days riding with Rachel. She has the distinction of travelling more miles as a passenger on my bike than everyone else combined. Many years ago on a very different, much darker and troubled motorcycle trip where I was fully burdened by endless Artificial Rules and Toxic Beliefs, she flew out and we rode through the big trees on the West Coast.. Those moments are some of my fondest memories. Even though we lost touch after that summer, I have kept her photo on my wall all these years. We reconnected on facebook not too long ago. When she heard about my trip she was going to join me for a leg of it, but life got in the way and those plans have fallen through.

Rachel is one of my favorite people.

Maybe I'll be able to at least visit her for a day next week as a last stop before I return to what's waiting for me in the place I call home.

I'll be here a few days yet. Phil had mentioned that maybe we would ride up to a cabin in Maine over the weekend and the possibility of going sailing some time this week is still on the table I think. I think it would be really cool to go sailing with Phil. That's something I would really enjoy.

When the time comes to leave here I think I'll ride Southwest and take a look at the Eastern Grand Canyon after all. I may even, say it isn't so, camp.

Road Report Day 65 - Getting to Yes

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 10:03:11 EST

Phil and his friend Charlie, left a while ago get a new rear tire put on Phil's bike. The tires he had selected were fine for a twisty place like Deal's Gap but were not suited for thousands of miles of highway. Last night we noticed chords showing.

I've spent the morning futzing with my bike's exhaust system. The patch we had put in place hasn't held and the leak is getting worse.

The reason this is bad has to do with cold air. The break is only 20 inches or so from the cylinder. Exhaust valves in the head become very hot. If there isn't enough length of pipe between the exhaust valve and the outside world, it's possible during decelleration to pull cool air from the break back up to the hot exhaust valves.

You know what happens to hot glass when you pour cold water on it? Yea, like that.

So I fear cracking exhaust valves. It may be a moot point as the valves on cylinder #1 might already be damaged. Once I reach Boston, which is still 1000 miles away, I should be able to tell.

A new exhaust system should be waiting for me there as well.

We're in a place called North Bay, Ontario. Phil had wanted to avoid the long straight roads of Michigan, opting instead to go up and over the Great Lakes. Tomorrow we descend into New York.

These are travelling days filled with cars, traffic, passing, and disquiet. Riding styles matter and our styles differ. Phil has a "every man for himself while being together" kind of style. He'll ride on ahead and leave others behind but will wait for them to catch up if he gets too far ahead. He'll decide to stop and wave us on to ride on ahead and then catch up later.

I, on the other hand, have a more military unit style of riding. We ride in formation each rider occupying half a lane in a staggered pattern. We ride together. Everything gets done as a unit. If I'm leading and want to pass I wait until there is enough room for those behind me to pass as well. I signal to them my intention and we all go, the leader lingering in the passing lane long enough to show the followers there is no oncoming traffic. The leader is responsible for those behind him. Those following are responsible for paying attention to the leader. No one gets lefts behind.

Phil's friend, Charlie, a man who is challenging preconceptions that I did not know I had, seems to be somewhere in the middle between Phil and I.

Between a broken exhaust, trying not to use the engine to brake which means I can't just let off the gas I have to think it through carefully and be very smooth, traffic, keeping up with Phil and watching out for Charlie behind me yesterday really took it out of me more than I realized.

But at least I've been able to sleep for two nights. Phil, to his credit, is concerned and is being accomodating. We'll all do our best to meet somewhere in the middle.

Like I've said, I'm out here to See and Think differently. It's been very many years since I've ridden any significant miles with guys who ride differently than I do. So while challenging, this is good. It shows me how, in this particular realm, I'm different and gives me the vocabulary to describe myself when people ask.

It's also a good challenge to work with someone else taking their position into account to find a compromise that works for everyone.

Road Report Days 60 to 64 - Days Riding With Phil

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 18:07:00 EST

I just haven't had the kind of time I've wanted lately to write or think about writing. Riding with new people who have very different styles makes that kind of introspection challenging ... my apologies in advance.

During a very different kind of motorcycle trip earlier this year, Duncan, Bruce and I met Phil for the first time at Deal's Gap. We were sitting at breakfast talking about how the three of us were becoming known as "those BMW riders". A group of guys had just called over to us "Are you them BMW riders? You sure look like BMW riders." when we saw a BMW R1200RT pull up being followed by a Suzuki 'Busa. "You don't see that too often.", we commented.

Shortly thereafter, we noticed the guy who rode the BMW walking in. He surveyed the room and headed straight to our table introducing himself. His name was Phil, it was his first time here and he was from Boston. We got to talking. He was very outgoing constantly telling stories and making a strong impression. His friend, Geo, was more reserved and didn't say much initially. As it would turn out, we would spend most of our Deal's Gap trip hanging out and riding with those two.

Over the next few days, I watched Phil simply and boldly approach people left and right. He would survey a scene for a few seconds, choose a target and then lead with some appropriate, or as the case might be inappropriate, opener to get a conversation going. We had been at the Gap for a few days. Within hours of arriving, Phil already knew more people there than we could possibly hope to ever meet.

It was through Phil that we met Mike and Angela, who he had just met hours before. Mike had been having some trouble with his Triumph and as soon as Phil heard this he was on the phone making connections. He had a few friends who were bike mechanics and was trying to line up help as quickly as he could. I saw him draw on connections he had several times during our time there.

I remembered thinking, at least at that time and probably still to this moment, I would /never/ approach or talk to someone like Angela at a place like Deal's Gap, or nearly anywhere else for that matter. It's a Toxic Belief of mine. I could only imagine the kind of attention she was getting there and would have thought she would probably just want to be left alone, like a pretty woman sitting a few seats down from me at a bar. "You're too nice.", Phil would say. But Phil, Phil's got none of these concerns. He just barrels through and the next thing you know Mike and Angela are at dinner.

I thought a lot about that and how many memories that I am very fond of I would not have if it weren't for Phil barreling through and bringing these people into my life. There's a lesson in there that I attempted to learn early on in my trip, which I now think about as I've been texting Angela planning the next trip to Deal's Gap in the fall with her and Mike.

"This guy is a natural born networker.", I found myself thinking, "I can learn something here." He was constantly meeting people, figuring out how and where they fit, what he thought about them. His mind was always working.

Honestly, I think one of the reasons my trip was not nearly as lonely as I feared was because of some of the things I learned by watching Phil's example. It's extremely rare that people who are that outgoing would prefer to spend time with someone as reserved as myself. It's usually oil and water, but there's alot more to Phil than the first impression he makes.

I forget at what point it was, but sometime after he heard about my planned trip to and from Deadhorse, Alaska he wanted to stay in touch. We did.

He had invited me to join him up to Nova Scotia at the tail end of my trip. I was tempted to go. Phil had been a professional sailor racing in the America's Cup. He's been involved in almost every capacity in the maritime industry. He's done crossings. He's delivered boats from San Diego to Sydney, Australia. He had a very unique and very different view of the world than I did.

"Different is good.", I thought as I considered joining him.

Because I spent more time in Fairbanks, Valdez and especially Prince George, I no longer felt like I had the time to join him up and back. I was going to head down to Salmon, Idaho as a random redirection when he sent me a message saying he was going to scrap his plans, ride out West to meet me somewhere around Thunder Bay, Ontario and join me on part of the last leg of my journey.

He had sent me several emails and text messages during the trip to check in and offered a number of times to help me get parts, information or even, if need be, a truck to haul my bike somewhere. "Very cool.", I remembered thinking. Phil was always trying to help.

I didn't really know Phil well at all beyond the time we spent in Deal's Gap, but he seemed to really want to ride with me a ways. Since I'm out here to See and Think differently, my thought was it would be good to hang out with Phil for a few days. I was sure the time would be filled with all kinds of new faces, ideas and perspectives.

That was not something I could easily say no to. I've done a lot of riding alone on this trip. It would be good to ride with someone else for a while, even though Phil's riding style is very very different from my own.

So I scrapped plans to go to Salmon before I really understood what had been set up and made plans to head East across Canada. Sorry to the folks in Salmon. I hope to make it by that little town on the next trip.

A number of days have passed now. One thing about riding with someone else is there's little time to write or to think about writing. So I now have a little down time as I sit in a Best Western in Michigan on Lake Superior to see if I can capture some of the snippets from the last few days. Where as normally I spend my time riding being internally focused, during this time I've had to be externally focused. Phil rides faster than I do and in a style I'm not used to, so the simple act of riding takes more effort, more concentration.

And combine that with the fact that I'm running on iffy brakes and a broken, albeit patched, exhaust, and there's not so much time to think about the written word. There's also the sleep schedule issue which is becoming somewhat of a problem. Between being three timezones over now and getting up 3 hours earlier than I'm used to I haven't slept much these last several days. So much so that Phil started getting concerned about it as well. But I managed to get some sleep last night finally.

Back several days ago, I was stuck at the Westwood motel in Ignace, Ontario. My exhaust system had split completely. One of the header tubes was separated from the muffler completely and the bike sounded like some kind of sick Harley. And as I had mentioned, in this shape the bike could not be run. To make matters worse, there were no parts available in Ignace and the nearest town was 150 miles away. Towing the bike was going to cost over $780 and by the time we got there it would a 4 day holiday. All in all things were not looking good.

When Phil read the report of my problems, he had already been on the road for a day or two. He offered to stop by Canadian Tire to pick up exhaust header tape and other materials needed to patch up the exhaust so the bike could be ridden. I had thought he said he was only 400 miles away. As it turned out Phil rode 740 miles through holiday traffic and pouring rain to reach me. He arrived at the motel around 10:30.

I believe that is the longest day he has ever ridden. He was sore, tired and in need of food. I had secured him a room and had gotten him some food. He mentioned he was an early riser so he crashed and I returned to my room.

I felt bad that this guy, essentially a stranger, who had put himself through so much hardship just to help me out. He rode 250 miles more than I've done on any day of this trip and he did it essentially cold turkey. That's even harder.

I couldn't sleep and early morning came too soon. I heard his bike start so I got up. We went to breakfast. As I had mentioned in a previous post, I was a little concerned about what this guy would think about my emotional and introspective posts. "I mostly skip over the mushy parts.", he said. "Whew.", I thought.

We went on to talk at breakfast and I began to get a sense there was alot more to this guy than I had initially thought. "The way you are able to describe internal states is impressive. I could never do that. You're a phenomenal writer and I agree. You should write a book, not that you'll ever make any money off of it, but it would give you something to have.". I was floored. Phil is kind of what you would of as a "tough guy.". Very Boston. Very maritime. But also intelligent, insightful and surprisingly complex.

He also knows more about motorcycle mechanics than he believes he does. After breakfast and my fifth cup of coffee we got to work on the bike.

It was a good thing he was here. I had never done this kind of repair to an exhaust system before. He brought bailing wire, tin, snips, header tape and other materials. He showed me something he learned from working on sailboats to tie the broken headers together.

He jumped right into help. Instant teamwork.

Exhaust header tape is a temperature resistant tape with an epoxy that melts as the exhaust system heats up sealing up cracks. Unfortunately the break and cracks on this exhaust were just where the four tubes go into one so all that could be done was wrap it best we could hoping that the wrap and what we stuffed between the tubes would provide enough back pressure to prevent cylinder #1 from frying itself. This process had to be done with the exhaust system warmed up. I was prepared to burn my hands when Phil produced a pair of mechanics work gloves.

I was feeling very fortunate. The sun was obscured by clouds so it was not too hot.

To finish off the repair, Phil suggested that we cut and bend some tin and hose clamp it to hold the tubes together. The problem was the tin needed to be formed into a roll so it would more easily fit around the exhaust tubes.

"Aha!", Phil exclaimed as he started using a fence post for this purpose.

It did the trick.

The final patched result didn't look too bad. The exhaust leak could still be heard but the popping and cracking that had been happening before was minimized.

The problem is that if I use the engine to brake as I normally do especially at highway speeds, it will pop and backfire. So Phil suggested I change my riding style to no longer use engine braking at all until the exhaust system can be replaced.

What this means is that if I'm passing and then need to decellerate I can't just go off throttle. That'll cause a backfire. I have to instead either pull in the clutch so the engine is not being dragged by the bike or I have to do what's called "Trail Braking" which is where you pull in the front brake and then slowly reduce the throttle. This was the engine is always pushing and not being dragged.

We packed everything up and then got onto the road.

Getting a handle on not using the engine to slow the bike down took a while. Eventually I gave up on the "using the clutch" method and just started using the front brake and then slowly turning the throttle down. After some practice it got to be second nature. With the broken exhaust and the iffy brakes and not wanting to slow Phil down I opted not to snap photos unless we were stopped.

We headed towards the bed and breakfast in Rossport where we were originally supposed to meet and crossed the Eastern Time Zone boundary.

There was an older couple that we asked to snap a picture. Phil had been using the "This guy over here just came back from Deadhorse." opener to get people talking. When he said that to this couple they responded, "Yea.". You just never know. It turns out they had just ridden their Goldwing on a tour roughly as long as the one I was in and were intimately familiar with Canada and Alaska.

We laughed as Phil commented afterwards, "Yea, every single road we mentioned they were like 'yea ,been there, done that'".

The landscape changed again and now we were in amongst the trees.

Phil likes to go at a very good clip, actually much faster than I am comfortable with. I like to keep things no more than 20 over whatever the speed limit is.

At my request we stopped at an overlook.

The scene over this vast lake was beautiful.

There was also a tribute to Terry Fox, the Canadian who lost a leg to cancer who ran from one end of this vast nation almost to the other. The statue marked the point at which he could no longer proceed because the cancer had returned. He ran missing one leg 26 miles a day day after day.

"Now that's a real Nightmare.", I said to Phil. I felt very small and moved by what I saw. It was not only the thought of this young man whose fate had been sealed but despite that was doing something meaningful, helpful and deeply moving with the last days of his life, it was the way Canadians reacted to him. The gas station attendant at the gas station where we filled up mentioned to me, "You know the Terry Fox monument is up around the corner. You should go see it.". He said it in a reverant tone. There's something to being Canadian, I think, something deep and compassionate. There's a pride, but not boastfulness. There's an honor without conceit.

"All Nightmares are relative to how you react to them.", I recently told a friend who was surprised to hear that, in her words, I had it so much worse than she did. "I don't know about that. And I don't think it matters. It's not what happens to you that matters, it's the lessons you learn from them. Sometimes you learn things that are toxic to you, as I have."

But I was humbled by the statue and the tribute. I'm rarely moved by such things, but this one seemed so honest. There was no spin, no posturing. It just honored a man who did, with the last days of his life, something meaningful that touched and inspired many lives.

On the way back to the parking lot, still moved by what I had read, we ran into a guy who was on a trip to BC. I think his name was Jeff. He had done long tours before including riding out to the Coast road outside of San Francisco and down through the West.

He was doing this on a cruiser. Phil told him about my trip and I mentioned the blog. "I'm writing articles for a new travel magazine. I saw the articles in there and thought to myself 'I can do that.'", he mentioned.

"I am so envious of your trip!", I exclaimed easily revealing my enthusiasm. Incredulously, he said, "No, I envy your trip!'.

"My trip is in the rear view. I too envy my former self. He did not know how good he was going to have it. But I envy your current self and the adventure you're about to have. I do wish I could turn around and head back that way with you.", I said letting my mind wander for a moment West and North over the mountains ... so envying my former self.

He seemed to get and appreciate what I was saying. I do envy him and wish him well on his journey.

There were pretty flowers in the parking lot.

Yea, I know.

At every chance Phil told stories and I listened. Phil talked about sailboat racing, about rigging boats and cranes. About running a sailboat services company and the thought and energy he had put into that. He talked, without being really aware of it, about his deep insights into human nature. In his current and former occupations, he dealt with every strata of society from top level politicians and CEOs of major corporations, to lawyers, accountants, doctors, to blue collar workers, trucker drivers, mechanics, laborers, to the shadier side of life. He talked at some length of the psychology of gangs and the types of people drawn into them. For each observation he had a story, often a funny story. Phil has led a more interesting life than he realizes, I think.

I mentioned to him the influence watching his outgoing nature had on me at Deal's Gap. "I think I had a desire to change but watching you gave me the tools. I think maybe it's because of meeting you that I was able to change my perspective and meet all those people along the way.", I explained. He seemed really complimented by that. We talked about openers and about engaging people in conversation. I talked about symbols and the way people decide whether or not I'm someone they want to talk to.

Phil is a very outgoing guy. He often crosses lines I don't think I'll ever cross, but he's got a compassion and an open mindedness to him that if you didn't take the time to see past the first impression you might miss. I was often very surprised how non-judgemental he is, especially when it came to conversations about my Nightmare, things that have happened and how I reacted to them.

He stopped at another overlook to have me snap a photo.

He rolled up next to me joking, "Now, as your next exercise, go up to that pretty woman and get her to talk to you", as he pointed to an attractive woman who had just stopped to walk her dog. I bust out laughing as I considered, "Yes, Master Obi-Wan" and I could just imagine him say "Remember your training!". It was too funny

No, of course I left the poor woman alone.

I think it's going to be a while yet for me, my thoughts on that subject being elsewhere now very far away.

The landscape changed again and the hills returned.

And we finally made it to Rossport to the Island Shores Bed and Breakfast. Phil is a master planner and researcher. He found this place. It was inexpensive and was by far the nicest place I've stayed at in the entire trip.

I mean this place is just beautiful. They were also very motorcycle friendly and had two paver covered areas under the deck where we were allowed to park the bikes.

And of course, there were more flowers.

I call this one, "Phil, the Fixer, with Flowers".

Laugh.

The inside was very nice. There was an open kitchen and sitting room.

Once we got settled in we headed over to a Cafe for dinner. It was very nice albeit very warm. I had steak and a greek salad.

The place was packed. They had a trout special that I had wanted, but unfortunately it came breaded. I had asked whether it could be done without the breading, having to deal with my silly diet again, and the waittress said that normally they would be able to but that the kitchen was backed up. "Ok, no problem, I'll have the steak.", I replied.

Phil seemed bothered by this and afterwards said, "I wish you had insisted and gotten the fish.".

As I've said before a few times, it's not important to know yourself. You know who you are alone in the dark. What's important is to understand how who you are and what choices you make are different from those around you. Phil is very different from myself along an axis I haven't been aware of before. I am conciliatory and attempt to find consensus with people. I seem to have an empathy for the context that people operate in and am perfectly willing to abandon my wants to find something that will work for everyone, even if that person is someone I am paying, like a waittress at a restaurant or even an employee or partner.

Phil has a wider range of approaches. Sometimes concilliatory, sometimes forceful he is entirely willing to convince others to see things his way. If he had wanted the trout special instead of simply taking no as an answer and moving on, he would probably have managed to game his way back into the kitchen to talk to the Chef himself if need be to get what he wanted. This ability of his serves him well in the line of work he is in. Essentially, he's a Fixer. He fixes problems both big and small that occur in his company regardless of what they might be. Usually they are lawsuits, but often times they are also problems in operations, or machinery. He's been known to use his maritime skills to pull boats off the beach or move garages. If there's a problem he fixes it, but in order to do that he has to have the ability to convince others to comply with his needs and wants.

Someone with the ability would have been incredibly beneficial to me during the practical aspects of my Nightmare and I told him as much. "Yea, I can see. I could have really helped.", he said to that. And I believe he could have helped and I am also completely convinced he would have bent over backwards to help.

Phil is drawn to the water. If there's ship or something having anything to do with the maritime industry he's immediately drawn to it. He saw a Hinckley boat docked at a nearby marina. Drawn to it, he walked down and I followed him.

There was training sailboat there. We talked to the owner for quite a while. Phil, being a seasoned professional sailor with an incredible depth of knowledge, talked to her about crossings. He would later laugh that she did not know what she was getting into attempting to cross the Atlantic in a 38ft boat. "I've been hit by waves on 200ft boats that were 38ft high. A fish hit the windshield so hard it cracked and we had to work to keep the instruments dry during a gale.", he would explain. (I can't quite capture Phil's speech patterns so the quotes are a bit off. He's got a Boston accent and an 'all over the place' kind of speaking that has many interruptions and redirections ... )

One of the students walked out.

Mr. Kelcher, FROM ACCOKEEK!!!!

For those who don't know, Accokeek is a small town southeast of Washington DC in the state of Maryland where I grew up. I spent my first 18 years there. My mom still lives in Accokeek.

No one is from Accokeek.

A few hours ago Phil called from downstairs. He had, while I was writing, rewrapped the exhaust. The exhaust system on my bike is in sorry shape. The cracks are getting worse. Basically it's falling apart. It was really cool of him to take the time to do that to let me write. I just didn't have the time to put the kind of effort into this article that it really needed. There's so much more to say, so many stories, insights and perspectives to share from these last few days. The maritime museum we went today where Phil's real depth came out. It was interesting to watch his reaction to the Edmund Fitzgerald Bell and the stories of ships that went down. "It kind of makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.", he would say. Of riding these roads. Of stories, so many stories that really bring out this complicated character.

But, alas, there is no time for me to write about it all, so for today this will have to suffice.

Phil called. Bike repair finished. "Time for you to meditate. The wrap instructions say the bike has to be ridden for a half hour.", he said.

So off I went for a half hour alone to meditate while riding my machine ... and the odometer turned 66666.

Phil's friend, Charlie, has shown up on a Harley. From here we are going to do three moderate days to make it to Boston where Charlie, a professional mechanic, has offered to let me use his garage to bolt on the aftermarket stainless steel Remus exhaust I ordered today. I managed to get one of the last two aftermarket exhausts available for my bike in the country ... my return will be delayed for probably a week as a result. Phil wants to ride up to a cabin in lower Maine over next weekend. There's also mention of a possible evening sailing trip sometime this coming week.

As improbable as I think it is, if you know anyone who you think might enjoy this blog please send them the link.

Road Report Days 57, 58, 59 - Next

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 22:59:18 EST

I do not have the time to develop the ideas in this post to the degree they need to be. In a few hours Phil will be here and I will have to focus my attention elsewhere. If, as so many of you have suggested, I do write a book the themes here will be much better developed and will form the basis of the book.

I've been travelling for three days across epic flat under challenging skies all the while waiting for the storms to return. Thinking about perception. No, thinking about feelings behind perceptions that form the basis of what we think they mean.

I now sit in a motel in a small town of Ignace, Ontario, my bike's exhaust system broken. The #1 cylinder header pipe has completely split free. The bike now sounds like some kind of sick Harley with a nasty sputter.

Unfortunately, the machine cannot be ridden in this shape. Insufficient back pressure from the break will cause me to burn up the #1 cylinder long before I reach home.

Ignace is a small little town in the middle of nowhere. There are no auto parts stores here. The nearest large town, Thunder Bay, is 150 miles away and I fear running the motor that long to get there. I don't know at what point the exhaust broke. It may all already be a moot point.

I had to ride quite a few more miles than I was planning. I had realized some things, come up with what I wanted to say and wanted to write. I had really wanted to write, but all motels were booked solid for hundreds of miles. I eventually made it to Ignace, late, found a tavern that was open even later, grabbed a bite to eat and tried to sleep, but was completely unable to. The phone rang early. It was Phil. He had already gotten exhaust header tape, which is not available where I am, and other supplies and was offering to ride all the way out here. Half asleep I was stunned once again. "This is so messing with my world view.", I thought.

I did some calling around and tried to solve the problem myself. I checked with a towing company and a small autoparts store. Nothing.

Breaking Artificial Rules, since he's going so very far out of his way and it's going to be a rough ride for him under unpleasant circumstances, I agreed to the help.

As I write he's fighting holiday traffic, I believe in the rain, and making his way here. It'll take him till close to midnight to get here. Damn. I've gotten him a room here at the hotel and will try to get some food and drink for him shortly.

A couple of days ago, after I had been out in the epic flat dodging storms and chasing rainbows, doing more thinking, I got up to leave. The bugs out there are really something to behold.

I had cleaned the face shield less than 20 minutes before finding the motel. They were just awful, but I didn't mind. There were also these larger bugs, monster bugs, that would flit by. Sometimes they would hit and when they hit you could feel it through the armor. It was late and dark. Dragon Flies? Locusts? Alien Baby Snatchers?

I had slept later than I had intended. I packed up all my gear in the hot July sun, the temperatures here approaching 90, got on the bike and attempted to start it.

The electrical gremlin recurred. Firing on only two cylinders and the tachometer reading 0, the bike sounded ill and would hardly run. This has happened before. I shut the bike off, let it sit and tried to restart it.

After many attempts including letting it sickly idle for 15 minutes I began to fear I wasn't going to be able to meet Phil. It wasn't going away. I thought to back before this trip and the calm I experienced on Atigen Pass and in other places along this Journey and wondered why I felt so differently now.

I can remember thinking that if this had happened Before, I would have been completely stressed out about it. I would have felt responsible, ill even, at the prospect of another failure.

But today, under this heat, I was calm. "If I can't fix it, I'll just have to tell Phil. It is what it is.", not realizing yet how different this feeling, this calm, was.

Anderwerks had given me some suggestions on how to diagnose the problem. The first suspect was the coils, which provide the spark to the spark plugs. There are four exhaust pipes, one from each cylinder. One way to figure out which coil it might be is to run the bike shortly and see which pipes are hot. 2 and 3 were hot. 1 and 4 were not. 1 and 4 are on the same coil, so maybe the coil is bad.

They had suggested then, if that was the case, to swap the coils to see if the problem followed the coil. If I swapped the coils, restarted the bike and the other cylinders ran then it would be the coil and I would know what parts I had to have shipped.

I had forgotten what a job it is to remove and replace the coils. As I unpacked my gear, pulled off the bags and side covers I noticed something on the ground. "Funny, I didn't think I was around DC", I chuckled.

The little gold shiny thing in the center is a bullet.

I had already checked out of the room. The cleaning lady, more like cleaning girl actually, came by to fix up the room. She left the door open for me so I could run in and drink water. It was hot and I was sweating profusely baking in the hot sun. "Parking lot bad. Garage very good. I envy my past self, I really do.", I thought as I roasted thinking how fortunate my past self had been.

Because one bolt holding the coils in at the top is too long to remove without removing the battery, I had to remove the battery, which of course sits under the fuel injection computer which can't be removed unless you remove the ABS computer which can't be removed unless you remove the seat and so forth ...

I pulled out the coils and swapped the wires. It was now maybe an hour and a half later. But I was not stressed. I was not rushed. I was not expectant or angry. I was just hot and uncomfortable wondering how long I would last out here in the heat before I had to find shelter.

I put the coils back and and reassembled the minimum I needed to to finish the experiment.

The problem did not follow the coils. "Good information. I know it's not the coils now.", I thought thinking that some time ago I might have thrown my hands up thinking that this was hopeless, stressing endlessly about implication and what it meant about who I was. But not on this day.

"There are two other possibilities. The ignition control module or the pickup sensors.", Anderwerks had told me if I had gotten to this point.

The ignition control module is located on the side of the battery box next to the coils. It has a large connector that goes to it. At Anderwerks we had tugged on it and pushed it in and but it didn't budge being firmly connected to it's socket. I looked at the cable again very calmly, not rushed, just observing when I noticed that it seemed kinked more than usual. I tugged on it in a slightly different direction and noticed that the connector moved. It had not been as firmly connected as we had assumed. I pushed the connector back in further and started the bike.

It immediately started and ran fine.

This has been a recurring problem for as long as I have owned the bike. 18 years. What an interesting analogy, letting go of Artificial Thoughts, Constraints and Rules to focus on this moment after the nightmare and to be able to, as a result of what I have learned on this trip, easily solve a problem whose solution has eluded me all these years. "Interesting.", I can remember hearing her say.

I have struggled with the concept of Artificial Rules, Thoughts and Constraints. "Those analogies don't really capture what I think, see or feel.", I remembered thinking.

I packed up the bike my leathers completely soaked through with sweat. I got some more water and headed back out onto the road.

The sun was shining. There were no storms to be seen anywhere. It was hot but beautiful. The breeze felt good. The road was straight. Endlessly straight and it was flat, flatter than Kanas. It gave me much needed time to think.

"What a nice and appropriate ritual separation from the ecstacy of riding all those mountain roads. I have the time to reflect, to maybe, just maybe, learn something from my journey so far and all the improbable things that have happened.", I would think as I rode.

There were pretty flowers.

"He's so sensitive.", I chuckled. "Yes, I guess I am and I'll kick your ass if you say otherwise!"

Laugh.

At one point I approached what I thought at first was snow, which didn't make any sense.

It was a pile of some salt mineral on a field of salt next to an evaporating lake.

Eventually, after hundreds of miles, a thunderhead loomed in the distance looking like a mushroom cloud.

But it was far away yet. I was sure to get rained on but by the time I approached it had dissipated.

It's amazingly flat out here.

Such a brutal contrast from the mountains. "I love the mountains. They are good for my soul.", I found myself thinking out of character. I never really consider what's good for me, what makes me feel better or worse. I just endure whatever and I'm very good at it.

I stopped to get gas. I haven't mentioned it before but it's been happening more frequently. There have been quite a number of gas stations up here that haven't had any gas. In this particular large town most gas stations didn't have gas.

I found a station that was open, got gas and some water. Chatted a few moments with a cruiser rider about his trip west and then headed back onto the road content to just make miles and think.

As I rode I kept thinking back to places and events over the mountains. I was riding East but wanting it to be West. Was it that I wanted to head West? Or was it that I so didn't want to be riding East? It was probably a combination of both. "Why?", I wondered.

I crossed the border into Manitoba. I do not like Manitoba.

I hadn't really talked to many people. There are few riders out here. This epic flat is not a place where you ever see Adventure Riders, they preferring other routes across. I thought about symbols. How easy it was, for the very first time, to meet so many people and how affected I've been by all I've met.

I've been open out here in a way I don't think I've ever been, but it has felt good. It has felt like Me, a Me I have not known. I think it's the Western Canadians that really opened my eyes, how friendly they are. They all seem to smile invitingly and are interested, curious, polite and most importantly, I realized, unafraid. Really unafraid.

"I like Canadians.", I thought as I realized that I am not done with Canada yet. I think I need to return to ride those roads again. There are more stories here I need to experience.

I thought more about symbols. Why did I meet the people that I did? Most I seemed to meet because of the bike. Most were riders or interested in riding. Many, like Dani, recognized me as a kindred spirit because of the gear I had.

"But I understood and noticed none of that.", she had said, a comment which I would think about endlessly and eventually come to understand. "Such a wise woman.", I would later think.

Was it the place? The culture? Maybe things are just different out here. Western Canadians are a positive albeit walled in bunch, but I like that. It's comfortable for me. "My politeness and world view seem to match them more up here than they do at home.", I thought as I considered so many conversations I had.

The sun was fierce.

My GPS started to flake out. It's a car grade GPS that is not suited for outdoor motorcycle use so I put it into a water proof bag. It flops in the wind badly and tends to break the power cable confusing the GPS something fierce. I've already replaced the cable once on this trip and it was looking like this new cable had given up the ghost quicker than the last.

Then I remembered that I'm a fucking genius. How many thousands of miles has it been?

The answer was "duct tape". The question was "What simple easy fix could Yermo have come up with to make his whole trip more pleasant.".

Duct Tape.

Problem for the next cable solved. I would have to get a new power cable though.

The sun set on the horizon once again and it was beautiful, and there I stood on the side of the road alone, no one to share it with. But it was ok. I was at peace with that fact.

I rode on into the darkness marvelling at the fact that I have not gotten rained on despite thunderstorms being all around me.

I eventually found a hotel after searching quite a bit and a restaurant that was open. Very bad food. There's a lot of very bad food out here in the flat. But then again, there's alot of bad food on the road in general.

I went to sleep but was not able to sleep well once again.

The Next Day

I had overdone it on the previous day. I guess all that time baking in the sun took it out of me more than I realized. I woke up looking old, older than I have at any time on the trip, my face badly swollen and I felt ill, ill the way I felt on the last cross country trip.

I had only done maybe only a little over 400 miles the previous day but I looked and felt like I had done 1000.

I got up very late, checking out of the hotel a half hour after checkout time and sat at a diner trying to wake up drinking lots and lots of coffee and water.

On the horizon a very bad storm was brewing and heading my way. Normally I would rush to see which way I needed to head and try to run away from the storm. But I didn't, not in a self destructive or depressive way, it was just that I didn't care.

"If it rains let it rain.", I thought as I sipped another cup of brown colored water they call coffee. I sat for some time, some very long time, considering how I felt. My thoughts went back to Rick who is now on the Dalton Highway. I hope he is not being eaten alive by mosquitoes too badly.

I remember how he had posted on Facebook, talking about the Dalton Highway, that he hadn't thought about it being beautiful up there, only focusing on the hardships. "What a tragedy.", I thought, "for him to go all that way."

So I posted:

"I'm still on the road. Outside of a Calgary now on the sad route back to what I call home. Stop. Take a moment. Breathe. Enjoy the moment. Ignore the mosquitoes, the mud, the hardship and let the beauty of the place you are about to ride to get inside. It would be a tragedy to visit this place and, despite it's hardships, not appreciate how special, how foreign, it is. Enjoy it."

I would think about this for some time coming to realize that I need carefully listen when I speak.

Why did I dread going home so much? What was so different out here? Was it the people I met? The culture?

I had dreaded the return trip since I started this journey.

I thought about one thing she said, that at first I had completely misunderstood, "And then on to my favorite part, NEXT!", talking about my journey home.

"Next.", I thought, sadly, not understanding, so wishing I could avoid going home and turn in some other direction.

Then suddenly I got it.

Change. Motion. New experiences. That is what's so different about the road. Every day begins anew and there are new faces, places and experiences to be had. I have seen and experienced so much new on this trip. Motion is good for the soul.

There are so many souls you meet out here. For the most part you just pass through these lives a momentary blip on the radar. But rarely, oh so rarely and you are blessed if it happens to you, you become part of a life for a brief moment that Changes Everything and you see as if with new eyes.

I have always known that I liked the time on drives that have a destination but I don't like to just randomly drive around. I have to have a goal. I realized, that I too need a "Next", a sense of End in order to enjoy the Next Now. At every point on this trip where I have truly enjoyed myself there was in it a sense of "End", of "Next".

That was one aspect of the weekend that was so powerful. There was motion and change. Left to my own devices, I sit and contemplate and do not move for hours. She, on the other hand, is always in motion, but not in a hurried or stressed way. It's just motion. Dinner is done, it's time to go outside and sit in the sunshine for a little bit. Then walk to the horses. There is no sense, none, that this is a sin, that somehow one should be doing something to accomplish a goal, get the next task on the endless todo list done, to move closer to that irrational goal, whatever it is. There is only now, and now it's time to go sit outside and bask in the sun for a short moment. During the day she decides not to go to work so it's off to the beach at the lake, then without staying too long it's on to dinner, then drinks. The next day, after working hard for a few hours and going for a run, her dinner plans cancelled, let's go for a ride. Always motion, fluid natural unhurried motion letting each moment last as long as it should and not longer. Each moment has a beginning a middle and most importantly an end.

Next. Now I understood.

I really need to listen to what I say to people. Back in Ouray, talking to one of the noise makers who did not want the fire to be put out, I said:

"In order for there to be a beginning, there must previously been an end.", I said.

"I get it. We put the fire out tonight so we can have another one tomorrow!", he said enthusiastically accepting now that he had to go to bed.

There are so many lessons that I have known, but have not internalized, have not felt.

I now know a big part of why I feel like I have nothing to go back to. My life has no "Next". I have not paid attention to how I feel. It has always been ingrained in me that to feel is to be weak, pathetic, and needy. You force yourself to endure whatever. I am very good at it.

My nightmare and it's effect were real. I look back now with these new eyes on that person that sat in that house for all those years. Few knew the many many nights I would sit alone in the dark on my couch panic attacks making me feel like I was having a heart attack. Or the times, the endless expanses of time, when I would work so hard I would be in the house for a week straight never stepping foot outside. Or the times, doing nine month workaholic stints trying to achieve something for reasons I did not understand, where I would not meet a single new person.

Looking at it now, and the life I have to go back to, it's no wonder that I dread it with all my being and want to go back to that sunshine and light and "Next" that I experienced in that special place over the mountains and now very far away.

Sitting there in the dark in my house working away hours and hours on end, there is no next, just more of the same day after day. With saddistically few exceptions, my childhood was like that. My teenage years were like that and much of my adult life has been like that. Strange and sad that I have never thought, never understood, that's why I have hated my life so much.

And now it looks completely insane to me. I was always taught, brainwashed, that work and only work is valuable, and that was a lesson that has to change.

I think about the lifestyle in Washington DC. Get a job. Move up the company ladder. Work like a fiend. Acquire stuff. Stress. Each day like that last, but more importantly each phase of life like the previous from beginning to end.

In a way it's it's own kind of a Nightmare, and nightmares are times when you have no Next. I thought about culture, the North German culture I admire and value. Build a house with your own hands and have it last 250 years. There's a permanence to Germany that's not present in the States. But maybe, given how my life developed, those concepts are no good for me?

I guess maybe with children there is always a next. Each day they grow and become different leaving parents to experience a new event.

But we, we who are not on what Tanya calls the Standard Plan, we have to develop our own Plan, a Non-Standard Plan. This is something that until today I have not seen clearly. She is not on the Standard Plan. She's single and has been for a while and her friends marvel and worry at the fact that she's single. My friends wonder the same about me. Find someone you like and be with them. That's the standard plan. But when you grow up like an oak on crooked and broken ground the standard plan does not work for you. For people like us, we have to invent, we have to create, we have to develop our own Plan. And often times these self created Plans are not compatible, well maybe, not yet.

Even though she's working like a fiend right now to accomplish a goal she said, "It's good for now" implying that maybe soon she would change. She is internally free to choose in a way I have never been.

"Interesting.", I thought. "My company. What if it does fail? What if it's over? 12 years we put in ... how badly have I let Anatoly down?", when I realized that's just fear thinking and still part of my nightmare speaking loud and clear. "Hmmm. Maybe I am afraid of Next in the bigger sense of the word." Maybe the industry has changed and circumstance was to blame? Now that's a thought I've never had. But then again, if I can muster the calm of the Dalton in business, maybe I can come to see the obvious solution in front of me that has eluded my sense for 18 years, like a loose connector.

I wonder. Can I rework my life in DC, take responsibility for it, so that there is always a sense of Next? I pondered that for some time thinking about how I don't really know what I like left to my own devices. So I asked a different question, "Can I make my life at home more like my life on the road. What do I like most of the road?".

Meeting people, learning from their stories, being open and letting the occasional very special person in.

I thought about the storm and rainbow of the previous day.

"Silly universe.", I thought wondering if that symbol too would give me an insight that I needed to learn. I found myself wondering about how the mind looks for symbols. "Do I just find the symbols I need or are they random and I would not learn what I need to. Would I never have learned about Next if it wasn't for her?", I questioned realizing that the answer was definitely no. I was just fortunate. Improbably fortunate but ready to learn what I needed to.

Ian said travelling is good for the soul, but you have to open and willing to explore those parts of you you like the least, the places that hurt. The road is a very good place to do that.

"I feel differently, I really do.", I thought as I considered that maybe, thinking of the silly rainbow, maybe I could learn to do what she does. Not to be crazy optimistic like someone who just denies the bad stuff in life, but instead have a balanced view, to rationally accept the bad but decide not to let it hurt too much and then /choose/ to feel the emotional impact of the good, to not doubt that it has value and what it meant. "I wonder if she feels anything about the fact that I chose to spend an extra three days with her?", I mused as if to consider a thing forbidden to consider, and I allowed myself the rare feeling, "I bet she does.".

To do with people, with events, with endings, what I could so easily do on the Dalton Highway, but haven't been able to do with this. Enjoy the moment, cherish it, learn from it and then move on to the next moment freely.

"I feel differently. Something has changed.", as I pondered what it might be. The universe seems different today.

I walked outside and looked at the storm.

"I am beginning to feel like I will be able let my Nightmare and it's effects lie.", I thought as I misread the GPS and thought I was going to head into the storm.

"Maybe my future will not be so bad. Maybe Duncan is right. Maybe the storms and the nightmare are behind me.", I thought as I considered what a silly symbol it would be if the storm were on the other side.

Then I realized I had misread the GPS and headed off into the sunshine.

"Ok, this is truly ridiculous.", I thought being slightly embarrassed knowing that I would feel compelled to share this.

I rode off never getting rained on, the large beautiful storm in my mirrors the whole time.

I rode on for a while but the GPS started flaking out again. I believed it was the cable so when I stopped to get gas I checked the GPS, fully expecting the bitch to lie to me like she had done so often in the past, and she led me to a Walmart.

I never go into Walmart. I hate it. It's an Artificial Rule.

They did in fact have a power adaptor for my GPS.

I baked once again in the hot sun and fumbled with the GPS. It turns out it was not the cable but the power connector in the GPS itself. "$10 wasted.", I thought but had no desire to go back into the place. "I'll just use it as a charger when the need arises. I've spent so much crazy money already.", I thought and moved forward.

I was overheating. I drank the last of my water, got on the bike and headed onward.

Leaving the parking lot I saw a Starbucks, remembered the previous day and thought, "I'm on no schedule. I've got plenty of time. Let me stop, be kind to myself, drink lots of water and have a cup of coffee". So I sat at a Starbucks for an hour rehydrating.

For those of you who know me best, please don't panic.

I don't think I'm going to be as much of a fan of Starbucks as I have been. I may not go there that often. As I sat there I kept thinking how it just did not feel right. The last time I was in a coffee shop, I had enjoyed it so much more. It was the company I had, but the indelible mark it made made me feel like this shop I was in was just not right.

"I wonder what things I have not explored in my own neighborhood?", as I sipped my coffee and glugged water pondering why I've never taken the calm time to explore the place I have lived for 15 years. "Crazy.", I thought.

After I had enough to drink I rode on for a couple hours. I stopped at a rest stop. A guy on a Gold Wing trike rolled up. I had not met anyone new in some time and was feeling closed. "People here are just not as friendly. There are no smiles. There is no openness.", I thought as I considered whether maybe my soul simply doesn't match the place I was living.

A couple of women walked up and asked me about the bike. They said, "You're far from home".

"Not nearly as far as I have been.", I replied and we got to talking about the Dalton Highway and my journey. They left. I looked towards the guy with the Wing. He had an unfriendly closed nature to him, but, out of character and mustering a social bravery I rarely have, I walked up to him. "I've never seen one of these up close.".

His demeanor changed as he said in a thick French Canadian accent, "Really? I can't believe that.".

He had built the thing himself. The rear end was made of a combination of, I believe it was, Chevy and VW parts. He had custom engineered his own indepedent rear suspension so the thing leans a bit. "I have a heart condition so I can't ride the two wheelers any more.", he said. It turns out he used to work as a mechanic for a Formula 1 team in the 70's.

We talked about the Dalton, Prudehoe Bay, Alaska, He had come back from touring the tar sands and diamond mine operations in North Canada. "They are worth seeing. You should go.", he said.

Another destination in search of a Journey. I found myself thinking that I just might. I don't think I'm done with Canada yet. I think I have to return. This place is good for me.

We parted company and he headed on his way. When I got back to the bike I noticed the side stand had sunk into the pavement.

"If it's this hot here I don't even want to imagine Washington DC.", I feared.

I rode on after taking a pause, a moment, to read about wildfires in Canada. How unlike me.

I rode for miles on straight endlessly flat roads eventually crossing into Ontario. The further East I go in Canada the less friendly the faces become. It's palpable. I don't think I'm making it up.

I tried to stop in a town called Kenora. They were having a huge lake fest and every single hotel was booked. A huge storm loomed on the horizon. A Harley rider, who had been soaked by the storm, mentioned the rain. "It's bad.", he said.

I was under a hotel overhang when it started to rain. A man from the lower 48, as they call it up here, asked me if I was going to be ok in the rain. "It is what it is.", I said. "I hope it's not too bad.", he replied.

"Even if it is it'll be ok too.", I replied matter of factly.

"True enough.", he said.

I have to remember to value the small interactions. I've recently had a huge soul altering Interaction that has changed my world view. Leaving it has left a hole in me and it would be a tragedy to let that hole close me to value the small interactions along the way. When travelling do not Expect. Just let yourself be and find a way to enjoy and value the small interactions along the way, even if they are just a few seconds conversation with a stranger you will never see again.

I put on the tank bag rain cover and my rain mits and went to head out when the sun appeared. "Fuck. Ok this is just getting completely ridiculous.", I thought almost annoyed.

I pulled out.

I'm not making this up.

Ok, universe, I think I get it.

But I did not. Not yet.

I rode away from the storm. It was HUGE and fierce but I did not see any of it directly.

I just saw sunshine.

"Ridiculous.", I thought as I figured anyone who knows me would think I'm making this up.

Ok, this NEVER happens. ENOUGH ALREADY!

The landscape changed. There were now rocky hills and trees. "Ok, now it's time to get into the storm.", I thought as I was clearly about to get pissed on.

It drizzled on me slightly never raining really hard. The road was soaked through. I continued on, still not quite grasping the lesson I was about to learn.

The sun came out and set on the horizon.

I rode on for a while eventually needing to get gas. The gas station attendant girl, not quite the most beautiful attendent ever but still very attractive, said, "I can't believe you're not wet. If you had been in this storm you would have had to pull over. It was HORRIBLE."

I thought for a while longer about the rainbow and the storms. I thought about what She had said. "I refuse to let cirumstance pull me down." fearing there was a lesson in here somewhere.

I had expected the storms. They have always been there. "Everything I have touched has gone badly.", I thought as I considered my life and the motorcycle rides I've taken. I've done so many miles in the rain and so few on this trip. It's been nuts.

I thought about the Nightmare as I considered the rainbow and the storms. "Why did I never defend myself? Why did I endure all those years, all those terrible years. Why did I just not simply leave when so many people told me to.", I asked myself.

The old man tortured me. I was put to work and given responsibilities at a very young age that turned me into a very responsible, very adult child. "But no one wants to interact with a child that acts like an adult.", Tanya would say.

I was told over and over again for most of a lifetime what a failure I was, how I was responsible for the failings of the company (I was 12), how my I was responsible for the fact my mom would die a cold and lonely death in the gutter and so many other things. I have told these stories so many times, but not until I have put them down into words in this public forum, forced myself to do it, has it become clear to me how insane that is. I was 12.

But I learned to endure. I could force myself to do anything and I now, with a strange clarity, realize why I could never walk away from the Nightmare, why I had to see it to the end and Finish it. Get it resolved when no one, not even my lawyers thought it could be done.

Because I had to prove to myself in some kind of vein effort that they were wrong. I was not the man they said I was. I got it done against overwhelming odds. My friends who Saw will tell you that. The professionals who worked with me will tell you that.

But I cannot yet accept it.

And today, because writing helps, I wrote a message. Personal. But in it I realized something as I put all this into perspective.

I have been struggling to describe thoughts, feelings, constraints that bind your possibilities and restrict your world. It's the kind of thinking that makes seasoned adventure riders with knobby tires crash on the Dalton when I can ride it in the same conditions with ease. It's not an ego thing. It's a perspective thing. Change how you Think, change how you See and you can change what you can do.

I wondered if I could do with Life what I can do with riding.

And then it hit me. Out of the blue it hit me as I was typing. What I have been trying to grasp is not artificial Constraints, Thoughts or Feelings.

It's beliefs. Things you were taught to believe. Things that you were taught to believe that hurt you, that restrict your possibilities, that close you to the beauty around you. The beliefs that turn a wonderfully beautiful road like the Dalton into a slog that one dreads.

Poisonous beliefs.

No, Toxic Beliefs.

And then I understood. In a moment of rare clarity I understood. I have been handed down a huge set of Toxic Beliefs that color how I experience the world. With life I am like the adventure riders so concerned with things that they believe, that they toxically believe, that the time they spend is squandered and the point is missed.

I was toxically made to believe that I am bad to my core by deeply damaged parents who used me a symbol for all their failings. I was left to clean up one of the most anatagonistic evil messes that anyone has heard about. When these things happened, when any bad thing that hurts me happens, feelings that I have been handed down arise that I had not realized where there. A bad event happens, such as a motorcycle breaks and I hear the words on the old man, "You are a failed project of mine. I dont' know where I went wrong with you."

For the first time I take a huge risk and ignore the toxic beliefs, which in many instances turn into Artifical Rules, and I have one of the best weekends of my life.

Toxic beliefs are beliefs that hurt you, restrict your opportunities and prevent you from experiences, realizing and most importantly /ENJOYING/ the moment at hand. They are handed down to you by parents, by the wider culture, by religion and other sources.

When you are living the Standard Plan, wife, kids, house, retirement, it's less clear because everyone around you is living with the same beliefs.

But when, as I am, you are living the Non-Standard Plan, making it up as you go along, Toxic Beliefs are more problematic. They are more harmful because they do not free you to explore the freedom you have.

But even if you are living the Standared Plan there are toxic beliefs that can constrain you and make you No Fun. Things like never taking a moment for yourself because you are too stressed taking care of your family worried about what will happen if you are no longer around. I have many friends living this kind of, what I would call, Nightmare. It does not have to be that way.

"Life sucks and then you die.". What a horrible statement. Cowardly. Fearful.

Like the Dalton, I see now that Life can be ridden, travelled, and can be enjoyed,valued and learned from despite it's risks, despite the epic suck. It, like the mosquitoes, mud, rain, water trucks and huge gravel will always be there. Don't let those emotionally detract from the enjoyment of what is there. Prepare for the suck but do not let it rule you. Take care of your family, but examine your own beliefs, about what is possible, what you can allow yourself, not irresponsibly, but practically, rationally, about what is toxic and non-toxic. Then, after you've allowed yourself to feel, really feel the impact of those beliefs, to figure out which are good for you and which aren't, take a risk. Take a shot in the dark.

You may end up being a better person for it.

I am.

I think maybe now I finally, after a lifetime, no longer have the pressing need to talk about my nightmare and what was done to me.

Maybe I understand now.

As James, the bear of a trucker said, "And then you have to get on with it''.

Road Report Day 56 - Dodging Storms and Chasing Rainbows

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 13:25:47 EST

Based upon a recommendation posted to the YML.COM forums by Ian, I opted to head to Calgary to an independent BMW service shop called Anderwerks. They have a reputation for being traveller friendly and they certainly lived up to that reputation.

It's located back in a warehouse district. The front door is a bit confusing as it looks like a photo.

I desperately needed tires as these Michelins had over 6,000 miles on them. Anderwerks hooked me up setting up an appointment for me the same day for tires, oil filter and to install an air filter I had brought with me. It took ages so I hung out in the shop. The wireless was having some kind of routing issue. They let me mess with the network but I think the router itself had developed a problem. Thwarted, I just hung around the shop.

They finished everything up just as the shop was closing at 6pm. OMG it was expensive. It was probably more than 30% more expensive than the same job in the states. Ouch. At this rate I'll be bankrupt before long.

I grabbed a hotel in town. I heard from Dani the adventure rider that he was in Calgary as well but we didn't manage to be online at the same time to figure out a place to meet. I think he was in a more interesting section of Calgary than I was based on his recent video.

The next morning, again troubled by thoughts and having my mind wander back to places I've been, sitting in the hotel lobby I wrote well into the afternoon. A big storm was brewing on the horizon and the winds were kicking up. The hotel clerk took pity on me and made me some coffee.

I have been thinking about verses in this one Led Zeppelin song pretty much the whole trip:

For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way

I went to start the bike and a rare but recurring electrical problem presented itself. The bike was firing only on two cylinders. I shut it down. Let it sit. Tried to restart it and to my shock and horror the problem persisted. I tried this a few times and thought that maybe I was screwed wondering if I was going to make it to meet Phil and Geo.

I called Anderwerks and loped back to the shop. Half way there, of course, the other two cylinders started firing and I've been unable to reproduce it after that. The guys at the shop are very knowledgeable, even about my old sport touring machine. They gave me some insights into what to look for and gave me a 24 hour number where I can reach them if I run into trouble on the road. Very cool.

So late in the day I grabbed a quick bite to eat and headed off towards the east. I stopped for a moment to glance back at the mountains I have come to love so much.

There's alot of traffic in Calgary.

The wind was picking up even more. I was sure to get dumped on.

The TransCanada highway is just that. A highway that alternates between interstate like sections and slow sections through towns filled with traffic lights.

I continued East and the mountains faded over the horizon becoming but a dim memory in my rear view mirror. Ahead approached a huge storm.

The wind was serious. I strained to see if I could notice a tornado in the center. Lightning bolts could be seen flashing in the center.

Storms are a constant in my life. During the '92 cross country trip and virtually every motorcycle ride I've ever taken I run into storms. I always get rained on. It sucks.

As I approached the edge of the storm, miraculously the road bent to the South and traced it's away along the edge of the storm. In places the road was soaked but not a drop of rain fell on me.

The wind continued to pick up. I thought, as I drove past the storm, that I could see the outline of a tornado in the distance but I wasn't sure. There was enough wind for it though as the bike leaned into the wind to compensate.

"This never happens.", I thought as I marveled at missing the storm, "it's wrecking someone else's life today. Not mine."

I was making really good time, but it was very flat out here. Flat like Kansas and at first I was not happy about it.

But it gave me time to think.

I ran through a tank of gas and stopped at a gas station, the storm still raging menacingly on the horizon.

"I wonder what the birds know that I do not?", I thought as I saw dozens of seagulls just standing on the ground motionless.

I tried to pay for gas but it was declined. I had to spend some time on the phone with the credit card company to get it straightened out. As I was getting ready to leave a guy with his family in an SUV rolled up and asked me if I was travelling solo.

"Yup, all by my lonesome.", I replied like I usually do. "Wouldn't it have been more fun to travel with a buddy?", he asked.

"Sure, but I didn't know anyone who could take this kind of time off.", I answered.

"Don't you get lonely?", they asked.

"Yea. Alot of this trip has been very lonesome, but less so than I expected. I have met so many amazing people along the way.", as my thoughts wandered back to the faces of people I have met and to one person in particular.

I have met so many people on this trip.

The sun could be seen shining on the edge of the storm in the direction I wasn't going.

I got back on the road and continued my journey over the oppressive boring flatness when, still tracing along the edge of one storm, another storm appeared on the horizon, this one worse than the last.

"Ok, now I'm going to get pissed on for sure. My luck can't hold.", I thought as I approached the storm.

And has been the case for the last hundreds of miles, just as I approached it the road turned and went around the edge.

"This just never happens.", I thought as I remembered how surprised I was that I missed those two storms outside of Yellowstone.

As I approached the far side of this larger storm, I stopped.

As improbable and cliche as it may sound, along it's edge I could see a rainbow. The camera for whatever reason didn't capture it well. It was much brighter than the faint outline you see.

I remained there for some time marvelling at how rare this is. Such a raging storm and this beautiful rainbow and sunshine in the distance, and for once the storm isn't dumping on me, ruining my life.

I thought about my demons and how they have followed me all the way here.

Matt always said, "You know Yermo, for as long as I've known you it's been the worst it's ever been. I'm not saying it hasn't been, but it's the life you have been dealt and you have to live it". He had known me since the 7th grade.

I thought about the last time I had this feeling, this feeling that maybe things will change and it's a terrible story. I have not allowed myself this feeling again since.

Duncan and I were at Starbucks. It was March 26th, 2008 and things had gotten as bad as I thought they could probably get. It had been horrible without any good news of any kind for ages. Even Duncan had started saying, "How are you going to fail today, Mr. Lamers", jokingly. Duncan likes being an annoying optimist just to bug me, but even his feigned optimism about my circumstances was beginning to fade.

Duncan was telling me about some good fortune in his life. It was looking like things were going to go well for him.

"Maybe this is a sign.", I remember fatefully thinking outside of Starbucks. "Maybe things have gotten as bad as they can get. Maybe this means things will get better." At this point Gesa had been dead for little over an hour, killed by an out of control SUV, but of course I would not find out about this for a little while yet finding only screams of anguish on the answering machine when I got home.

I remember the moment with absolute clarity. For the last two years it has been burned into my consciousness along with every detail of the hell it unleashed.

Over the weekend, many bad stories came out. The look of horror on her face at some of them made me stop and for the first time, the first time ever, I could feel the stories were real. A door opened inside me. "I have mostly just bad stories.", I told her trying not to show too much pain.

And I do. I have horrible stories. I have lived through storm after storm. Belina, my sisters best friend from Medical school, composed a piano piece for me entitled "Storms" based on, what she calls, a poem I had written some years ago describing the '92 cross country trip. When I get back, I'll post the poem.

And here I stood wondering if the storms in my soul will continue to haunt me, whether these demons will ever be laid to rest and what that means for what kind of person I am. I always focus on the negative. The pain. The storms. It overwhelms me and makes me No Fun.

"I like to take the good from meeting you - there is much.", she texted from over the mountains.

As I stood there, along the edge of this huge painful storm looking at this improbable rainbow, I realized that is what I have never been able to do, especially with myself. I only see the storms, the pain, the flaws and have not been present enough, calm enough, open enough, to really see anything else.

"It's a huge nasty storm.", I thought, "but the rainbow is pretty."

"I don't think I'll ever meet another one like her", I thought before focusing forward to the next moment. And then, in a moment completely out of character and new for me, I thought, no, I felt, "Then again, I don't think she'll ever meet another one like me either."

I got back on the bike and continued my ride East along the edge of the storm really not caring if my luck ran out. "I had a good run today.", I thought as the road turned again and I found my way into the sunshine.

It never rained on me. There was no hail. Only some bugs.

"Ok, this NEVER happens. Not once have I ever, in as long as I can remember, had this kind of good fortune riding.", I thought.

But then again, on this trip, that seems to have been a common theme.

"Maybe things will get better.", I thought as I realized they were already getting better. Of course I immediately thought, with my luck, I'd have a terrible accident or get some terrible news. "Someday, but not today.", I thought quoting one of my favorite movies.

"This is not the worst it's ever been. Far from it, Matt.", I thought as I continued to ride eastward to meet up with Phil and Geo, the riders I met in Deal's Gap, itself being a completely improbable event in my life.

Having read these ramblings of mine, I wonder what they will now think of this emotionally complicated deeply flawed long distance rider. They've completely reworked their schedule and route the accomodate mine and I'm surprised and humbled by that.

I'm heading to meet them for a few days of riding and maybe seeing the yacht Geo captains.

The sun set over the horizon.

And once again I found that calm, that peace, that I have been looking for out here.

Road Report Days 52, 53, 54, 55 - Do Not Ship to Canada

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 16:35:38 EST

"Do not ship to Canada.", the stickers read.

It was 1982 and there was very little humor that summer, as was the case with most years of my life. It was filled with a lot of being yelled at. I remember the vice president coming into my staging area at 1 AM yelling at me because I was taking a break. I mostly remember the yelling. 14 years old and I was being forced to do 80+ hour weeks for the summer, most nights working past midnight, because the old man's company was going bankrupt again and he didn't have the money to pay for staff. I was too numb to know that I hated it. I just did what was asked of me. I did it all. Successfully but I paid a very heavy price for it. It was all against my will. That's been such a common theme in my life.

I also remember the stickers. One day a shipment of computer parts arrived. I was pulled from what I was doing to help move them. Each box had on it a long thin yellow sticker with black lettering which read:

Do Not Ship To Canada

That may have been the only time I laughed that whole summer. I guess maybe you had to be in my head at that moment, but I could just imagine these shippers coming and trying to randomly ship me to Canada because no one had told them not to. I took one of the stickers home with me and put it on the headboard of my bed, just in case those confused shippers showed up when I was asleep

As a result of the last article I posted about a compelling woman I met, friends keep asking if I'm going to move to Canada."No, I'm not moving to Canada. I still have the sticker.", I would reply.

"Such a silly question.", I thought.

I've spent the last few hours trying to capture an idea, a feeling but I haven't been all that successful. It's close, but not right. In a way it's similar to that moment I walked into Dancing Rabbit and felt very uncomfortable wondering when it would seem normal, this question also produces a similar kind of discomfort. I've learned to pay attention to that feeling of unease and explore it. So far on this trip, it has allowed me to see things I would not have seen.

"What if she invited me to come back?", I began to speculate having that sneaking suspicion that maybe a new insight is waiting for me here somewhere.

I headed out onto the road because I needed to See and Think differently. I chose a random place, an arbitrary place to go, to learn a lesson not really expecting anything other than many miles. Deadhorse was a Destination as an Excuse for a Journey. During this journey I was hoping to be redirected and I have been and it has been a better trip for it.

I've thought several times, can I let my life be redirected as easily as I let this trip be?

As I get closer to home the stress is starting. I can feel it. Having come down from the mountains, I ground my teeth while I slept last night waking up to a sore jaw for the first time. I haven't worn the mouth guard in weeks I think.

I have not really considered moving, considered changing my life. Even through this whole trip I have assumed I would just go back to it, maybe with a slightly different perspective.

I think about where I live and what keeps me there. Friends. Close friends. Aside from family on my mothers side in Germany, my friends are really the only sense of family I have ever had. Even now, as I ride this lonesome road and introspect, they watch out for me with a deep sense of compassion so I can continue to get my head screwed on straight. They encourage me and try to get through telling me I am not the man I fear I am.

My mom. That's obligation. After '93, the Nightmare was primarily hers but unable to solve it herself it fell to me. 17 years it took. The last 6 where I have actively been working on it have been hell on earth.

There are others I've been living for as well because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. I try to be as good as I can be to as many people as I can be often at great cost to myself, which I largely ignore.

At what point do I start living for myself?

Maybe I've been out here long enough that the road has started to get inside. I "should" be riding right now but instead I want to write. So I write, sitting here in this hotel lobby.

I fear I will forget what I've felt and fall back into my old patterns. Actually, I know I will ... the stress closes me. I can already feel it happening.

Since December 10th, 2009, I am a free man. At least that's what they keep telling me. Until this weekend, I don't think I've ever had a hint of what that freedom really meant or could feel like. I realize now that in the time between when the Nightmare ended and this Journey began, I've been assuming that I would have to take on new obligations, to get on with it, as James the bear of a trucker said. I am only as good as the obligations I can uphold. Absent obligations I have no reason for being.

"I hate memorization.", Angela would say. So do I, but to some degree I live my life by rote, by memorization. I do the things I was taught to do, what was literally beaten into me, regardless of whether they make sense for me in this context. I think many of us do this. The circumstances of our lives change but we hold on the decisions we made without checking to see if they still make any sense.

I am a big believer in context. Choices have to be made in a context, but recognizing when a context changes is sometimes very difficult.

The choices I made made sense, a lot of sense, in the context of the Nightmare. I was stuck. But now that I'm out of the Nightmare, things are different but I still hold on to the vestiges and consequences of the choices I had to make while the Nightmare was raging.

And I still feel constraints. Artificial Constraints that make no sense in the context of how I live my life. I'm single. I have no kids and never will. But I constrain my life to a form that would only be appropriate if I had a life with a wife and kids and a regular job. Virtually all of my friends are living the "Standard Plan", as Tanya calls it. House, kids, regular job.

I have a house, endless possessions. I've been very responsible financially. I've always worked hard, been driven for the benefit of others. I've always thought if only I could build a successful business, I could save someone. I've tried to save a few. I couldn't save my mom. I couldn't save my sister, I couldn't save my niece, so I try to save those that I can as if in a foolish attempt to balance out the generations of evil committed by my fathers family, all the while desperately trying to convince myself that I am, deep in my core, not One of Them. I come from a family of horrible men. That's why I have the Artificial Rules in the first place, to convince myself I am different, deep down in my core fearing I'm not.

Have I done enough? Have I done enough to let that go? If I let all that go, the need to save, the need to provide, the need to fix problems is there anything left that someone would want me around for?

Before this weekend, I had always thought the answer would be no. Others have tried to get through to me about this, but I did not see it. I don't think I see it clearly yet.

Ian would say that he thought I should move, that the act of moving and culling stuff would be good for me. He's repeated it more earnestly than any suggestion he's ever made. "You should move. Maybe to Chile, or Canada. You could go to Calgary", he would comment, "Or even down into DC, but you need to move.", he would comment.

There's that disquiet. I never realized how the thought of moving terrifies me. I am actively afraid of it. I don't ever meet people on my own. "If I go someplace else, I'll be even more alone than I am here.", I would fear. What would I do for money? Can I build a business or do consulting or contracting someplace else? Fear. What about all my obligations? My friends? The Unknown.

I can't possibly move. Yes, I couldn't possibly move. Not while the Nightmare was going on.

Of course this trip has shown me that things might be different now.

I thought about constraints, about letting go and how it all relates to freedom. My boat, my servers, my house, my possessions restrict my freedom. Each possession implies with it a certain burden and recurring cost. Ian understands this and has been trying to convince me of it for years.

"If I got rid of the servers it would mean it would be so much easier to leave. I could run the business from anywhere very easily.", I began to speculate. Sure, having to deal with problems with third party monkeys who don't know what they're doing would suck, but that's how Ian and Tanya do it and it seems to work for them.

When she left Salmon, Idaho she got rid of most of her stuff. She owns little and is happier for it.

You don't change a life for a perfect stranger. But what if you have a life that desperately needs changing. What do you change it for? Why do you change it? Who do you change it for?

I can let a trip be completely redirected, rerouted because a person tells me "Oh you have to see this!". I'm heading to Thunderbay to ride with two guys I met at Deal's Gap when I had originally planned to head through the top of the US. Even that was a redirection after thinking I was going to check out Salmon.

Why is it unreasonable, given where my life is, to let my life be redirected? Who do you redirect a life for?

Those that you feel most obligated to? Those you are trying to save? Those you can be the most good for?

That had been my thinking. Change it to do maximal good for others, but that was just me following the same pattern of living for others I had followed during the Nightmare. I had this nagging sense that I something wasn't right.

"You change it to be what you want.", friends would say. The problem being I don't know at all what I want. Or at least I didn't.

Maybe now I have a glimmer of what, left absolutely to my own devices absent any hint of obligation, duty, work or expectation, I would have wanted if my life had been different.

I think I want to feel like I did from the time I stood on Atigen Pass until the time I descended out of the mountains. I want to feel that calm, that peace, and especially that openness, that lack of expectation being able to take each moment, let it get inside and then move on with little sadness. And I want good food to be a constant symbol in my life. It would be so much fun to learn to cook like that. I wonder if I could. And wine. Good wine. Espresso. And maybe, if I allow the comments that I've been hearing, even the comments she made, to get inside, I think I want to write. Maybe I have always wanted to write. Maybe I'll still have something to say if I can keep this calm, this openness, alive.

I was forced into computers at the age of 7. By the time I was 15 I was already useful in a professional context. I can remember thinking then, "I've got over half my life in this field, it makes no sense to change.". I've also said, that left to my own devices I would never have gotten into computers. I may have a programmers mind, but I do not have a programmers heart or soul.

She has ambition because she wants to live her life a certain way, not in terms of material possessions but in terms of circumstances and work. She wants certain symbols in her life. The life she lives by herself right now is so much better than how I've lived my life.

Even just watching how she lives her life while making decisions I would never make has made a huge impression on me.

Ambition for lifestyle. That's interesting as I've never realized I still hear the old man's voice yelling at me, "Happy? Show me someone who is happy I will show you a mental retard.". Growing up taking time off was considered weak. Ambition for lifestyle a sin. Work was everything and it was forced down my throat. Even to this day when I take a moments break I feel badly about it, like being away from Work is somehow a sin and I will be punished for it. I often say I don't take breaks, I work till I can't work anymore then I recover so I can continue. I never really get away from work.

I didn't feel that way this weekend.

I found myself thinking about the question, knowing that I am safely on the far side of the Rockies.

"A redirection. It would probably be very good for me. Knowing only that it has to change but not knowing how, or in what direction, do not stand still, do not be paralyzed, do not hole yourself up in the darkness alone. Instead open yourself and risk a Destination without the fear of endings, of letting go, or being let go.", as I imagined the chopping motion she made with her hand as she described endings.

With a wry smile I thought, "She could be my Deadhorse.". I laughed, "I have always known how to say just the right thing to women."

This is how my mind works now. Given an question like "Are you moving to Canada?" because of comments I make about compelling stranger I met in a bar, I focus on how the question makes me feel. I explore it. Of course it's a silly question. Why would anyone expect that she would want that? But, absent those thoughts, is there that disquiet in me that I see on riders faces that causes them to crash on the Dalton because they are distracted by Artificial Constraints and troubling thoughts that have nothing to do with the question? When I feel that disquiet, I now pay attention. I try to understand why I feel the disquiet, remove it and feel through to the core to try to understand it.

All this has less to do with this particular woman, relationships or being alone. It has more to do with how I react to the big questions and what I think is possible or not possible. I am a prisoner to my own thoughts and constraints, and I am trying to see that I need not be. I am trying to See differently. I guess I'm trying to understand freedom, so I'm free to explore here the thoughts behind a silly question I have now been asked by so many, and it has been many.

"Maybe its my turn to leave.", I've been thinking now slightly more seriously. "Where would I go? Why would I go there? Have I gotten too old? I don't have that much life left. What would I do?"

I could sell everything, get the company sold, let Anatoly go and make the real money he can somewhere else, and have enough money myself to stay on the road for few years, if I didn't worry about retirement.

I could go live someplace else.

I could get my EU citizenship and live overseas.

I could wander and become software ronin.

I stand at a crossroads. All options before me. I guess this is freedom, freedom from Artificial Constraints, Obligations and Rules.

Freedom is a bit of a bitch.

I left her place sometime after noon.

It was nice here. Peaceful.

I didn't want to be on the bike. I didn't want to go in the direction I was going. I stopped in Jasper and got a hotel early. It's a nice but touristy town. It was warm.

I spent the vast majority of the next day writing trying still to capture what I thought, felt and had learned. I sat there in the hotel for over 8 hours trying to write so I could remember.

I hit the road well after 6pm.

Eventually I crossed into Alberta. Ian had suggested that I head down to Calgary instead of going to Edmonton so I could ride through the Columbia IceFields.

I stopped at the side of the road and saw what I initially thought were stakes pounded into the ground in this field. Using the zoom on the camera, they were more of the funny little critters. Dozens of them in this wide field down in a valley just standing around looking, all motionless as if frozen.

I stood there for a while wondering if the critters would move, but none of them did. They all stood perfectly motionless for as long as I watched.

The mountains here were steep and one could see the angle at which the mountains were pushed up. It was pretty striking.

There were more rivers. The camera did not capture the color right. These were aquamarine. Almost green.

There were glaciers. Lot's of glaciers.

I kept thinking how much fun it would have been to take her riding through this landscape.

This was the first glacier that looked like what I thought glaciers were supposed to look like. It was late otherwise I would have ridden down to see it up close.

There were striking valleys. Notice the road.

The mountains here were steep. Crazy steep and tall.

There were bears. A couple crossed the street in front of me.

And there were incredible lakes. I stopped at this one.

I marveled at this scene for a while when a KLR rider rolled up.

His name was Shawn (sp?). He was about to go into the second year of medical school meaning that the next 8 years of his life were going to be spoken for. He decided a mere couple of months earlier to do the ride up to Prudhoe Bay and back. We compared notes and shared stories.

Then he told me he learned to ride only two months earlier!

Ok, now that's impressive. Riding the Dalton Highway without experience would be very challenging. But he made it and was on his way back to Washington.

He kindly snapped a photo of me.

He was looking at his bike when he noticed that his oil filter cover bolts were coming loose. I said I would hang out in case there was some problem.

He tightened the bolts. I looked over the bike with him when I said, "Oh, that's not good!". One of his frame bolts was virtually out. We pulled the bolt out, cleaned the threads and put it back in for him. Those thumpers vibrate bolts loose. I've lost a few screws on my four cylinder bike on this ride.

I rode on. It was late and the sun actually set behind the mountains.

The next day I continued on to Calgary and descended out of the mountains onto a plain. I have been in mountains for weeks. It was a sad moment as I crossed this boundary.

I was going to put in some serious mileage today, but I chose to write instead. Rain on the horizon. I'll probably do a couple hundred miles, grab another hotel all the while thinking about what I've learned, trying to ask a question to each questions I've been given.

"Why not?"

Road Report Days 49, 50, 51 - letting go of Robyn

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 16:39:12 EST

I sit here in Jasper, Alberta for longer than I should writing. But I need to do this before I forget, while it's fresh. I write this one for me ... it will be long. I need to so that when I'm back in the Stress and Closed and believe it's just a dream that I could see the world the way I did for this weekend, so I can have this to remember what a stranger has taught me, the risks I took and how it made me feel.

But I keep not being able to find the words. I keep editing and re-editing and thinking ...

She had said several times during the evening as if to remind herself, "Since I will never see you again ...".

"May I buy you the next glass of wine?", I asked breaking one of my Rules after what had already been a wonderful evening talking to a dangerously interesting woman. "I don't like to have drinks bought for me.", she replied. I answered, "It's like with dinner. I hate splitting the check. That's like a goodbye. If we split the check it means you never want to see me again. If I buy you dinner, then it just means you buy me dinner the next time. It's just a way of saying 'I'd like to see you again.'". She seemed to really like that idea and let me buy her a glass of wine. It appeared to me that she too was breaking one of her own rules. So it was set. We agreed that when I rolled back down through Prince George, I would try to meet up with her again and let her buy me that glass of wine.

I'm everyone's confidant. I've heard so many horror stories of bad men over the years that I have a checklist 10,000 Rules. I keep these rules so I'm not one of Those Guys that women complain about. One of these rules is "Leave the woman sitting by herself at the bar alone unless she talks to you first." I'm 42 years old. How strange it is that I've not taken the risk before to break this rule.

She so did not believe me. But then again, she doesn't understand what an Emotional Coward I've been.

She would later tell me that she usually sits far away from any guy sitting by himself at the bar. She didn't know why she did things differently that evening. "Improbable.", she said, quoting me.

That was a few weeks and many many miles ago.

On night three, before making yet another absolutely wonderful dinner, she handed me a bottle of red wine and said, "This is appropriate." On it was written:

"Life has its ups and downs. It can be both brutal and beautiful. You can hole yourself away to avoid life's pain, but then the beauty seldom find it's way in. It's only when you attempt to go where you cannot go or do what you cannot do, that you can achieve what you are truly capable of doing. Sure, you might tumble. You might fall. So what? Take a chance. Go way out on the limb. Dare to try - even if it's just a shot in the dark."

"Strangely appropriate.", I commented. "Very strangely appropriate.".

Three days prior, I had rolled into Prince George, BC on bad brakes and had gotten a room at a dive called the Downtown Motel. It was clean and had hot water and WIFI. I didn't need anything else. The parts I needed were waiting for me. I was really looking forward to seeing her again. Strangely, I had been thinking about that evening talking to her since our meeting. I imagined having a glass of wine and a good conversation. "This is good.", I thought as I considered that this was a first on so many levels.

I knew she was really busy with work and that there was alot of work on many projects waiting for her over the weekend so it would be an early night. I am nothing if not respectful of work.

A thought nagged at me. I was not looking forward to having to sort out the bike somewhere outside the next day. "What if I run into a problem?", I would speculate. I could easily imagine needing to leave the bike in a partial state of disassembly while I deal with a stripped thread, broken part or other unforeseen problem.

She texted me and we agreed to meet at the same restaurant, the Twisted Cork, at 8pm.

I arrived shortly before she did and ordered myself a glass of wine. The bartender recognized me and asked me a few questions about the trip up and back, but wasn't that engaged and left me to my own devices.

She walked in with a big smile on her face. It was as if no second had passed since our last conversation. She sat down next to me, started exploring which wine to order and thus began another intensely wonderful evening. The Twisted Cork is a great restaurant. The food is truly excellent. If you are in Prince George, BC you must go. It's on 5th Ave.

This was one of her regular haunts and the bartender teased her with a bottle of wine that had been at the bar for some time. To my surprise, she bought the bottle. It was opened and the bartender poured us both a glass. "I had just expected a glass.", I thought. Out of character, I mentioned nothing. Another rule broken.

I was starving and she was too having not eaten all day. Instead of ordering food separately, we just shared appetizers, a salad and a dish of very nice duck.

We talked the entire evening hardly with a moment of silence. We talked about my trip, what I thought of the road. We talked about Camp Coldfoot and the truckers, the story about the moose. I described my reactions to the drag fishing of salmon in Valdez.

We talked about me for quite a bit, more about my Nightmare and the Fear it caused, about risk and how hard it is for me to be open.

"You meet the people you need to when you are open enough for it.", she would say explaining how improbable it was for her to be here with me as well. "If you had walked in a week earlier, I would not have talked to you. This is out of character for me too", she would repeat a few times over the weekend.

She talked about her work, her family, friends and people important to her. She talked about places she's lived and visited. She talked alot about Salmon, Idaho, a place she spent alot of time and is very important to her.

Robyn is collage of seemingly incongruous impressions that somehow fit together to make a compelling whole. She has very strong and definitive likes. When she likes something, there's no doubt. She loves red wine, excellent food and sunshine. Prone to exclamations, she can regularly be heard to say, "I love it!". The outdoors is her playground, her sanctuary. She runs. "I'm deeply suspicious of marathon runners.", I would joke. "I only do half marathons.", she would reply. "Ok, then I'm only half suspicous.". She loves the back country, hiking, camping, kayaking ... far away. As is the case with so many people up here, the real outdoor hardships seem to mean nothing to her.

She is very unjudgemental and seemed comfortable around this biker software guy.

She has an intimidating practicality to her. This practicality runs through her entire being from her perspectives on the difficult work she does to human relationships. "Lifestyle is very important to me once something makes no sense I cut it off.", she said making a chopping motion with her hand.

"I've always recoiled from people where there's a sense that there's about to be a goodbye.", I thought as she described this part of her. "I'm not like that at all.", I said. "Once I get a sense of Connection with someone, the practical details don't really seem to mean much to me.". I would think about that for quite a while as I suspected that there was to be a lesson here for me somewhere. Later I would become more conscious of the fact that so few people get inside me, that like with so many things I fear them leaving. I've kept all of my closest friends for decades. I fear losing them. "It takes forever for someone to get inside me.", I would explain. I have never let strangers inside and I think I'm beginning to understand why.

She is very outgoing and collects people, values them deeply but, like many Canadians I've met, is also guarded and walled in, only more so. It's quite a contrast. Getting to know her, the her behind those walls, requires paying very careful attention to the little things. How she feels about things comes out indirectly.

In this regard she is also different from others I've spent time with. Normally, I need direct indications as to how a person is feeling, whether they are enjoying themselves, what they are thinking. She had said many times how much she needed to work and how she was paying dearly for a week long work trip she had just been on. But she wasn't leaving.

I realized at that moment, listening to her matter of fact way of expressing herself and all the things she was /not/ saying, that I model what's going on inside other person incorrectly. Absent any direct clear indication to the contrary, I will always assume that the person is uninterested, unconnected and would rather be doing something else. I think of myself as No Fun and have a hard time understanding and accepting that people might enjoy my company.

What was different here was that I could tell, for some reason, that she liked being where she was at that moment, with me.

She worked on fishing boats out of Alaska for years. Her father runs or ran a trucking company. She has a degree in biology.

How more different could she be?

She now describes herself as an advocate for environmental capitalism. "That's from you.", she says. She works with oil, gas and other companies to help them comply with environmental regulations and minimize the impact they have. With that same sense of practicality, she understands that oil and gas companies are a necessary evil. We can't live without them, so understand their business models and work within them to get their cooperation to have a positive effect. Without idealism and with a calm and measured approached, my impression is she's very good at what she does.

She is compassionate and caring but has a hard edge to her. There are limits and boundaries and she is very clear about them. For her, strangely, most of them have to do with work.

She is far braver than I am, willing to take emotional risks. She is able to hold on to the good of a moment or a person without letting the pain or negative events cloud it. Even as we talked, enjoying each others company more with each passing moment, the looming sense of goodbye, that this moment would soon end hardly before it had begun, never phased her. I tried not to think about it.

As we talked for hours, in the back of my mind I was reminded again about risk. Emotional risk. Opening yourself up to let some perfect stranger who feels like a long time friend in and why I never do that. By this time in the first evening, I already knew it was going to be difficult to leave when the time came.

We finished off the first bottle of wine and she ordered another. We polished that bottle off and closed down the bar, the evening over before it began.

I would muse later how incredibly different she is from me. Completely unlike any human being I have ever met. So far from my own perspectives and world view that I thought it was amazing we were having the kind of evening we were, that there was any common ground upon which to have this kind of interaction. "This is good.", I thought "I am out here to See, Think and Feel differently. She is certainly teaching me this.".

"Interaction". That's how she would later refer to our time together. "I rare ever have this kind of interaction.", what a classic example about how the personal and emotional comes out walled in and impersonal. "Interaction?", I would repeat with a wry smile on my face.

"Actually, I never had or done anything like this ever before.", she would say. I would try to convince her that this was unique in my experience, that I'm an introvert, closed and find it terribly difficult to let people in. "You seem strangely open to me.", she would say.

"I'm going to pay for this tomorrow", she said, "I have so much work to do."

I went to reach for the bill but she took it not allowing me to pay. She paid the bill and we left.

"Where are you going to work on your bike tomorrow?", she said. "Shit, that's right, I was going to ask you if you knew of a good place where I could wash the bike and work on it?", I asked.

"Why don't you do it at my place? I can put you up and make you dinner.", she offered. I told her the story of Angela, and how I nearly didn't go because of Artificial Rules. "Artificial Rules. I love it!", she exclaimed. It happened more than once that I would say something and she would write it down. "Ignore those rules.", she said. "I have long haired cats, is that a problem?", she asked. I thought for a moment. I'm allergic to cats. Fear. Discomfort. Reasons not to.

Breaking every rule in my book of Artificial Rules, I decided to be open, take the risk and said "ok!".

She had to go into work for a bit in the morning so we agreed to meet at a favorite coffee shop of hers after that.

It would turn out that despite all the wine we had neither one of us slept much that night. Sleeping has been a real problem for me on this trip, much more so than I would have thought.

I met her at the coffee shop at 9, or was it 8? I don't remember. She drank espresso with water. The conversations continued. Work. People. Stories of so many people.

"I haven't cooked at home in ages. I'm really looking forward to this. This is going to be great! But I need to go grocery shopping.", she said. She got her car and I followed her on the bike. We went to a great local grocer together. Instant teamwork. She's a natural born delegator. In Canada, bags are charged separately so most people use reuseable bags. She didn't have hers so in classic Robyn style, she used a camping stuff sack she had in her car.

We filled it to the brim.

Then we were off to a liquor store for wine, then to auto parts store and a seafood place. I had explained the Diet to her briefly and she immediately got it.

It turned out that how she preferred to eat was not that different from the way I eat. How rare is that?

I followed her out to the city to a large horse farm in the countryside. Dogs, cats, horses. She rented a basement apartment. There was a garage that had a space cleared out for the bike!

"Oh too cool.", I thought.

We were both stupid exhausted but the conversations never stopped. She had been working like a fiend for weeks on end, "the machine that her company built" is how she referred to herself.

She bordered on being a workaholic. Driven. But her drive came from something else. It came from ambition. But it was not ambition for acquisition or status. Her ambition was to live her life a certain way in a certain place doing things that kept her mind and body active. She was hell bent on moving to Calgary and was working towards the goal very hard.

Her work involves a crazy amount of travel. It involves business meetings, social events, business development, networking but it also involves site surveys, week long field trips surveying bug infested wilderness and camping on river shores. It involves riding quads through mud and dressing up for functions. She manages people, delegates and keeps her team together. There's a tremendous amount of coordination.

"I can't believe I'm doing this but I'm not going in to work. It's just not happening.", she said and went on to say that somehow I was the first person in ages that was able to pull her out of her workaholic ways to just be for a day. "Strange that the closed workaholic would be the one to pull you out ... we pull each other out into this moment I think.".

So you are not going to believe this. We were going to sit outside but it was such a nice day she suggested we go to a lake beach not far away. "Don't you have shorts?", she asked. I paused. "Shorts?", I thought. "I don't ever do shorts. I don't ever take my shirt off in public. I don't ...", I replied.

So there was sitting on the beach in shorts wearing flipflops.

As is the case with so much up here, the lake was beautiful.

I can't walk very far with flipflops because I throw my back out too easily when I don't wear the orthodics. Risk and I would pay for it, but the cost was worth it.

The intent had been to take a nap in the sunshine, something I can't remember ever doing. We tried to sleep but it wasn't working. The conversations continued.

She had this great little camping chair. Her life seems to revolve around outdoor gear. Even her work clothes are "outdoor grade", even her dresses are bought at outdoor stores.

We laid out in the sunshine for what seemed like a long time and a mere second.

We talked about the next day. She was going to be taking her sister out to dinner that evening and had to work. After some more probing, it sounded like she wanted me to stay for another day. "I can just hang out and write while you're out with your sister. While you work, I can work on my bike.", I explained. I believe in teamwork and like to be a facilitator. I understand work and commitments. I get the impression she's not use to people who understand that.

Back at the house, she started making dinner. "My internet doesn't work.", she said.

"You are making me dinner, of course I will fix your computer.", I wrote as a status update once I got it working for her.

"I love it! I can do most of my work from home tomorrow.", she said. "I've been home so little that I don't want to go out again."

She continued with dinner.

Oh My God This Woman Can Cook!

She cooks in a style I have named the Tanya style. It invokes ideas like Avocado, Mango, Baby spinach, onion, salmon, wine. Good, healthy, delicious.

She showed me how to dice the avocado and mango to make an avocado, mango, onion chutney thing. I forget all the ingredients but it was used as a topping on the fish. Delicious.

She hates posed photos of her, but I insisted. She made appetizers, which she referred to as "appies". Halibut cheeks in bowl lettuce with capers and more.

She had also made me a drink out of a watermelon and some gin. Damn good.

And, one has to not forget, she lives for her music. She had a laptop from which she had a selection of music that was playing anytime she cooked. She has really good taste in music.

I sat while she prepared the salmon. "Sockeye Salmon is the best! Oh you are so beautiful!", she would exclaim talking to the fish, not me.

At many points, I would make comments. Some about being grateful. Others about my insights. I gave her the warning about "Feeding the Yermos".

"You're funny.", she would say many many times but it seemed be as if to say "don't doubt".

After dinner, we went outside with a bottle of wine and sat in the sunshine, of course. It's the North, so it stays light very late. The horses across the yard were neighing. "Oh they just want attention.", she said as we walked over to say hello.

She seemed in her element around critters.

There was a calf that she adored. (You call it a calf, right? Suddenly I'm not sure.)

Absolutely wiped out tired, we called it a day. It was one of the few good nights sleep I had gotten in quite a while.

The next morning, she made me a couple of espressos and started on breakfast. A frittata thing that was both beautiful and delicious. We put the chutney from the previous evening on it and it really worked.

And we mustn't forget the blueberries.

She had work to do. Alot of her work involves coordination so she spends alot of time on the phone, texting and emailing. This is preferably done outside in the sunshine in comfortable clothes sipping espresso.

This is how project management should be done.

There were a few things she could not do from home, so she went into the office to take care of the minimum she needed to. A theme developed over the weekend as the list of things she absolutely needed to do was getting whittled down slowly to an ever decreasing list. It was now down to the bare minimum that she could get done in the shortest time.

"I haven't had a weekend where I've felt like myself in ages. Thank you.", she would say. I've never had a weekend like this. No, thank you.

Before she left she hooked me up with what I needed to get the bike done.

In many ways the Alcan highway was harder on the bike than the Dalton was. It's the dust. It gets everywhere.

It took forever to wash the bike. While it wasn't hot the sun was brutal and I was endlessly walking into the house and grabbing a glass of water. "This would have so sucked!", I kept thinking as I slowly calmly went through the motions of cleaning the bike.

Garage! Again, the kindness of strangers who feel like long time friends.

I was afraid the caliper bolts would be stuck. I also knew if this went badly, while it would be very inconvenient for her, I knew she would not kick me out and would, relying on her extended network of friends, somehow help me get it resolved.

As it turned out, I did not have anything that I could use to drive out the pins holding in the brake pads. Rummaging around the garage I found something that would work. "Whew!", I thought. I could have wasted a whole day on that problem alone if I had not met her. "Damn fortunate.", I thought.

The pads were totally shot worn to the metal.

The rotors are damaged but it works.

Robyn texted me saying that she was done with work and was going for a run. "Get it done! I got a helmet!", she texted. You could just feel the sense of excitement. She had mentioned a few times she'd like to go for a ride. "Funny. I had really wanted to take her for a ride but didn't have a helmet."

I took the bike for a test run. It worked. So I got everything ready.

She showed up helmet in hand. It had all kinds of graphics on it and an alien tinted face shield. It was pretty funny.

"What about your sister?", I asked. The restaurant they had chosen wasn't opened on Sundays. I was ecstatic. "Oh Cool! Oh, I mean I'm sorry. Bummer, eh?", I joked.

She seemed so excited to go for a ride.

I gave her the safety run down, how to get on and off the bike, how to hold on, etc and off we went.

We rode down a country rode that led over gentle sweeping hills as the Northern sun descended to the horizon. It was warm but not too warm. Absolutely perfect riding weather. She had not been on a bike in years. We rode for miles leaning gently around corners and traversing hills until we came upon a dirt road. It was done the same way the Dalton was.

We saw a rabbit.

We stopped. She told a story to which she said, "Oh this is horrible but funny". There was a group of six rabbits standing around their squashed buddy next to the road all oblivious.

We turned around and headed back towards the sunshine. She would alternate holding on and putting her arms out as if to fly ... when I noticed that my face had started to hurt.

I had been smiling like an idiot the whole evening.

We went down to the lake and sat by the water.

"This is so comfortable.", I would say. "Like an old shoe.", she would comment. "Nope, like old boots", I joked. "Yea, that's more appropriate!", she would laugh.

She had talked about writing earlier. She loves to read but is very selective about the authors she likes. "You're a very good writer. I'm surprised. Very compelling. I don't say that very often at all. Reading what you write inspires me to write.", she said. I could feel how rare a comment that was. I still don't know how to react. "Every time I write I feel questionable. I feel like I shouldn't, like I'm crossing some boundary that shouldn't be crossed. Exposing weaknesses that should not be exposed", I replied. We talked a bit about compliments and letting people in.

She's only read the one post I wrote about her. "Maybe you won't like the rest.", I commented. She said something to the effect that sometimes you can just tell.

"I want you to read something and I want you to let me know what you think.", she said.

We both wanted photos. She wanted some to show her friends.

As many people have told her, she occasionally has a Sheryll Crow thing going on.

She's one of these dangerously attractive women, who as you get to know them their qualities become deeper, more compelling and your defenses to them weaken. I told her as much.

I suggested a photo of the two of us. "Oh yes!", she said. Cool. I wanted to hold on to this moment in time as long as I could and I did not want to forget it.

We went back to the house. She had bought another salmon and was making dinner when she said. "Oh, I wanted you to read this."

As I had mentioned, Robyn has a very practical walled in nature. As is the culture up here, when it comes to impersonal polite subjects, she is very open and inviting, however, when it comes to personal feelings, internal insights, private things, she is very walled in and very private. Germans are similar. But with Germans I know how to model it; with Canadians it's a little different and Robyn seems to be an extreme case.

"You've gotten closer and gotten to know things about me in one weekend that takes friends years or more to learn.", she would say. She rarely makes comments with any kind of personal emotion. It's all at arms length to a degree. Ready to express value and admiration, but less likely to explain how she feels with any depth, getting to know her involves paying attention to things I'm not used to. Not one to I imagine is likely to say "I'm going to miss you." Her internal states come through her eyes and actions.

And she had some of the most unique eyes I have ever seen. Tri colored they were a thin ring of dark blue, containing a green/hazel larger band centered with gold. Gold like the eyes the Hill brothers have. Depending on the light you could swear her eyes were green blue or multi-colored. Very bright and a single look could convey a book. Very distracting.

She walked over to the laptop and pulled up a "Photo of the Day" which is where she chooses a photo or two and writes an entry. These have evolved and gotten longer. "I wrote this on a day of upheaval while I was in Salmon.", she said. "I would like you to read it."

I read it, deeply drawn into the prose. She wrote about a drive, a five hour drive along a road through Idaho. She wrote about her time and experiences there. Again, not directly describing her emotions or internal state like I do, but instead describing it indirectly through her observations, her comments, her descriptions.

She is an absolutely beautiful compelling writer. She has this ability to describe a scene, a moment, so well that you can not only imagine being there but you feel being there, not just there as yourself, but being there in that moment as her feeling what she felt.

And then I understood.

Her writing is where the beauty of this soulful mind comes to the foreground. Her inner self partially revealed not in direct words or descriptions, but implied through her musing and insights.

Through her words you can feel, if not see, behind her walls. It's as if the act of writing to the anonymous crowd allows her to express with compelling beauty things she would never say to any one person directly. It allows you to see a side of her you would never know was there.

She paints an intricate picture of an internal state so different from my own; a picture of strength and joy of aloneness in her without a hint of loneliness. "I'm happy being single.", she would say offhandedly.

There is such a sense of calm around her but there's a temporality to it. Like Angela and other women I've known, she is unafraid to let the moments go, holding on to them as memories and moving on, no matter how compelling, how deeply they reach behind her walls.

And there-in lies the parallel to my motorcycle trip. Standing there broken down on Atigen Pass my future uncertain I was able to, in that moment, just focus all of my attention on the moment /enjoying/ the interruption. Knowing full well that moment had to pass. Instead of focusing on the inconvenience, the peril, the distractions of other thoughts that had nothing to do with this Moment, I was able to clear my mind and take that moment in a real way and turn it into a positive memory that I will cherish for some time to come.

And it is this that Robyn can do with people, that I have been too much of a coward to learn to do.

She took a risk with me. She took incredible risks with eyes open. She invited some wandering deeply flawed biker from a bar to fully share a moment of her life. Unafraid. She never feared the time the moment would be over. It was as if the moment where it would turn into a slowly fading memory was just another part to the story. The goodbye, like death, was just a necessary part. Painful, yes, but it would not be allowed to lessen the moment.

Life, after all, is just a moment and eventually we all have to say goodbye and let everyone we know and value go.

"All bleeding stops", Gesa would say before I had to let her go ... a pain I feel so acutely at this moment as I realize I have not yet, even at this moment, fully internalized the idea that she really is gone and, more importantly, that I have to let her Go.

Suddenly understanding that this is what I needed to learn, as a pain welled up in my throat thinking about endings I have not completely embraced, I thought "Oh man, this is going to be a lot harder than I thought."

After a long long pause I spent being affected by the consequences of what I read and learned from an event in a persons life long before I had met them, she asked "What did you think?".

I struggled to find the right words, not fully understanding at that time why I was so affected. After a longer pause, I said, "I feel closer to you as a result of reading that.", I said. "Interesting. Alot of people have said things like that.", she replied.

"It's as if it gives me a hint, a way around your walls to see inside you to those uncomfortable places you are loathe to share.", I commented. "Very interesting." she said.

As she made dinner, she brought over a bottle of wine. It was labelled "A shot in the dark".

We sat down for dinner.

And it was delicious. It has been such an unanticipated treat to eat so well for these last few days. My body has craved it so badly.

She had to get up early to go to work, but there was no stress about it. We enjoyed each others company for the rest of the evening.

Neither one of us slept well. She has cats that are needy. "I don't like needy pathetic men. I have needy pathetic cats.". They would walk around the house making whining noises. Because of a disaster at my house my cellphone would beep as I got text messages. All in all there was little sleep. Exhausted out of my mind I got up at the same time she did. Odark30.

She made espresso and got ready for work.

"My mom wonders if I'll ever buy anything that's not from an outdoor store.", she said mentioning the dress which came from an outdoor store.

No story involving Robyn would be complete without a photo of her and at least one of her cats. Linus, her other cat that reminds me of Angelas Schreck, never warmed up to me. Skittish he refused to appear except rarely.

This wonderful moment with this stranger who had so much to teach me, came to an end. She drove off to work leaving me to pack up my gear in the house. I wrote for a while, then cleaned up what I could, packed up my gear. I hung around as long trying to foolishly hold on to the moment longer ... not having quite gotten the point yet.

I put on my gear, sent her a text message and thought to myself, "Time to let Robyn go.". Of course, that is far easier said than done. I did not want to ride in the direction I was riding. I was terribly tired and down.

It's very hard to go from my life to a weekend like I had back to my life. I have been sad at every departure. Ted and Sarah, Mike and Angela, Bruce, Ha, the noisemakers, Ian and Tanya ... but this departure. This departure hurt. "With the others at least I know I will see them again.", I would think.

But as Robyn kept saying, "Since I will never see you again ....".

And that is what I have to learn. To learn to be, to be open, to experience, to feel, to allow myself to grin like an idiot while riding in the sunshine with a wonderful woman whose arms are stretched out like the wings of a bird and not fear the moment it will end and not to try to hold on to the moment longer than it should be ... that takes a emotional bravery I have not yet learned to muster.

I will let go. I will learn not to only let her go and enjoy the memory and the lessons learned, I will try to learn not to be afraid of the letting go. So much of what I do and Do Not Do is motivated by fear. And, as I sit here in this cafe where I've been writing for hours, I now understand one of my biggest fears is of endings, of Letting Go, of being Left. "All bleeding stops", Gesa would say. All stories stop. Hers did leaving us all only with memories and snippets of a significant life that touched us all.

This story will end as well. That it ends does not reduce the impact, the meaning or the feeling. It is only an emotional coward that fears the inevitability of endings.

I see clearly now that the fear of Letting Go has paralyzed me and prevented me from ever taking a Shot in the Dark, until now.

On this occasion, despite knowing this compelling short story would end almost as soon as it started, I was not an Emotional Coward, possibly for the first time in my life.

Thank you, Robyn. You showed me a lesson I desperately need to learn. I hope to remember it.

She just texted me as I write. She's out on the worksite kicking it with some pipeliners on a beautiful day enjoying the next moment.

Hmmmm. And then again, I just remembered that she paid for dinner ... hmm, google maps says the direct route is only 2793 miles ... "hmm. A cakewalk".

Too tired ...

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 22:37:43 EST

Am way too tired to write. Was so tired I pulled off on a dirt road and slept on the bike for half an hour.

There's too much to say about the last three days and the words are just not coming to me right now ... maybe tomorrow.

I'm currently in Jasper on my way to Calgary to get new tires and an oil change on the bike before I head to the Thunder Bay area.

Too many things pointed to Calgary, so I'm heading there instead of Edmonton.

I have incredible friends. A huge storm blew through College Park and one of my large oaks was toppled. As it fell, it destroyed a telephone pole and knocked down power and communication lines.

The generator kicked in keeping the whole operation going for a few hours but eventually something happened and the network was unreachable for several hours.

In addition to knocking down trees, large sections of my fence have been blown over.

Lance and others today did what they could to fix the fence for me and deal with the other issues.

I have extremely good friends ... they watch out for me.

Road Report Days 47, 48 - On Patience, Balance and Lack of Brakes

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 09:17:52 EST

My apologies for having taken the longest pause between updates. Between lack of sleep, brake issues with the bike and a new friend here in Prince George who has helped me out tremendously, there's been little time to even think about what to write.

Back several days ago ...

Despite having gone to bed at around 1:30AM after having been in the hot springs too long, I woke up around 6:30AM feeling too tired. After trying to go to sleep for what seemed like a very long time, I misread my watch and decided to get up. I thought it was 8:30, but it was in fact 7:30. When he heard me milling about quietly, Dani got up as well.

Coffee and breakfast were in order so we headed downstairs to the restaurant. Because of his funding issues, I offered to treat breakfast, which turned out to be the most expensive bloody breakfast of the trip. The prices at this lodge were simply outrageous but, not thinking, I didn't discover that until the bill came. Oh well.

As I had mentioned, Dani had been on the road for two years. He would ride a while and then get odd jobs while camping and living as inexpensively as he could. Once he was able to save enough money for the next leg of his journey, he would ride on never really knowing where he was going or where he would end up next. He was a bit older than I had expected, being almost 32. He had worked in Italy for 10 years, I believe for a hotel. He had hated the job and had prepared for his trip for over two years.

I had been wondering how he was able to do all this since he was travelling on such a shoestring budget.

I asked about insurance, "How do you afford health insurance? If something were to happen to you on the road it could get to be very expensive very quickly."

"I'm Italian. We have free health insurance.", he replied. He went on to talk about a friend of his who was riding an older Gold Wing up the Dalton Highway when he had a nasty fall which turned into a bad accident. He had shattered two vertebrate and needed to be medivaced down to Anchorage. "The helicopter bill alone was $55,000 and he didn't have any insurance.", Dani explained. "Then he had to have multiple surgeries. I think the whole bill was more than $250,000 just for the surgeries. And they charged him $2,000 to move his bike down. He's screwed.". We went on to discuss health care and insurance in the United States. "It's not fair!", he went on. "It's human to make mistakes. To have accidents. Here you cannot have an accident, you cannot make a mistake. One mistake and your life can be over. My friend will never earn enough money to pay those bills even if he works his entire life.", he complained. "It's no way to live like that, always afraid of an accident or mistake. After what I saw happen to my friend, I got travellers insurance just in case. When my girlfriend and I got to the States she needed a blood test. Just a blood test to see if she had an infection. They wouldn't listen and put her in the emergency room. $2000 they charged us." He went on to explain after that incident his girlfriend no longer wanted to come to the States. "You could not pay me enough to live here. Even $50,000 a month I would not live here.", he said.

"What about retirement? Aren't you concerned about that if you spend all these years riding a motorcycle not really saving any money?", I asked thinking through more scenarios. "That's taken care of too. I get a retirement from Italy. I have to work 40 years or I have to reach the age of 65 and I get a retirement.", he replied.

I started to think through what effects not having to worry about retirement or health insurance would have on a life as we commented, "Of course, we don't have the same opportunities. It's very difficult to become rich in Italy."

Not having to worry about retirement, about your increased expenses in the future would have a huge impact on what you thought you could do with your life. I have read articles that claim we need about $6M in investments by the time my generation reaches retirement age to maintain the same middle class standard of living.

I hardly know anyone who is on track to amass that kind of fortune in the next 25 years. I certainly am not and my financial adviser tells me I'm doing much better than average. I have no debt other than a mortage. The house, boat, car and motorcycles are all paid for. I never hold a balance on a credit card. And I have about two years worth living expenses saved. But even so, at this rate I won't ever be able to retire.

Dani said, "Trips like this are no big deal. I've met people who have been out here for 5, 10 and even 20 years.". "Nomads.", one friend would say later.

"For Americans, the fact that I'm off for only 60 days is something only very very few people ever get to do in a lifetime. The average American takes less than two weeks of vacation per year.", I explained. "You need at least a month a year for sanity.", he replied.

I suspect this is why you see so many vacationing Europeans all over the place. Unfettered by health insurance and the pressing need to amass a fortune, they are freer to live lives like the one Dani is living. If I understood what he was explaining, the likelihood that he'll be homeless later in the life is somewhat limited. Contrast that to the US, where the leading cause of bankruptcy, and I suspect a contributor to homelessness, is serious illness.

We finished breakfast and started the morning ritual of gathering our gear, packing it just so and carrying it down to the bikes. While we were doing this, I noticed another adventure bike with stickers on it from all over the world. "Another real adventure rider.", I thought. There were stickers from all over the world plastered all over his cases. Shortly thereafter, he walked out of the cafe and we chatted briefly.

I asked him if he had gone up to Deadhorse. "Yea, just coming back down.", he said in a thick Irish accent. "How did you go up?", I asked. "I didn't. I came across from Magadan in Russia.", he explained. His name was Oisin Hughes and he was on the last leg of a Round the World Tour. He gave me his card and suggested I read the free ebook he wrote about his last trip which I promised I would link to although I haven't had a chance to read it yet.

"That guy came through Siberia.", I said to Dani enthusiastically. Unimpressed, Dani replied, "Russa is just a 15km ride. I've met countless guys like that." I thought about my little Sunday Drive which, as I spend more time out here, seems less and less noteworthy until Dani comments. "It's about the story.".

It took a little time to get a photo of Oisin and his bike. Dani, frying in his suit, took off down the road. I followed shortly afterwards and caugh up with him.

Dani was in the lead riding in his Italian style, but less so today. We rarely stopped. I was dead tired, having not had nearly enough sleep.

At one point we saw a bunch of mountain sheep, or are they goats, licking the calcium chloride on the side of the road. As cars passed they would pretend to scatter but then immediately turn around to continue their salt feast. I had been warned that they did this. Silly acting creatures.

The mosquitoes, biting flies and other bugs were just horrific this day. We would ride for 30 miles at which time we would have to stop to clear our shields. This too became it's own ritual.

We came upon Muncho Lake, on which the Northern Rockies Lodge that I stayed at was situated. We stopped at a nice view where Dani wanted to take some photos for his videos. I walked down to the clear green and blue water and Dani snapped a photo.

This was a truly beautiful lake even the second time around.

But as we travelled down the Alcan I realized I became more aware that I've become used to this land. It no longer seems strange or new. The novelty has slowly started to wear off. The beauty hasn't. Not wanting to slow Dani down since he needed to make Edmonton to meet a friend combined with having seen it all, I didn't take many shots. There was much beauty as there has been the whole way up, but if you want to see what it looked like just look at the posts about the way up.

We arrived in Fort Nelson. At one of our stops to clear our shields, I mentioned to Dani that I was going to stay in Fort Nelson. I was just too tired to do any serious riding. I needed a good nights sleep.

We stopped at a gas station where Dani filled up. I waited so I could say good bye to him. While I waited I inspected the front brakes on my bike more closely. They had been making some very disturbing sounds on the way down and they had grabbed surprisingly as I went to stop in the parking lot.

"Oh shit.", I thought. The entire pad material of the brake pads had worn away and I was running metal on metal which had scored my very expensive rotors badly. "Well, I'm not going anywhere until I can fix this. No problem.", I thought with the calm that has been typical of this trip. "I'll just have parts fedex'd. I'll stay here one more day. I'll fix them tomorrow or the next day and I'll still be able to meet Robyn as planned.", I thought. Robyn was the self-described advocate for environmental capitalism I had met in Prince George on my way up. It was a completely improbable meeting. She and I had had a wonderful time talking at a bar one night and I had promised I would meet up with her for espresso and wine on my way back down. I do try to keep my promises.

Dani and I said our goodbyes and off he went. I went off in search of a hotel with WIFI. Fort Nelson strikes me as a trucking town. There isn't much there. There are a few motels. I checked the first inexpensive looking one. No WIFI. The second one had WIFI but it was down. The clerk there had run into some problem with her computer while she was trying to diagnose the wifi connection. I helped her get her computer back up and running and went on to a third hotel. They didn't have WIFI either but pointed me to the Fort Nelson hotel which was older but quite nice, well at least in comparison to the kinds of places I had gotten used to.

I got into my room, got online and immediately started calling BMW dealers in British Columbia. My thought was fedex'ing something from the East Coast might be very expensive so getting something in-country would be better.

I finally found a dealer that had the pads in stock. Pacifc Yamaha BMW. The woman in parts, Anaz I think her name was, despite being at the counter alone really took care of me. I ordered the parts and she would ship them overnight via the express company they used. Fedex was not an option.

Some time later I got a call back. At this time it was after close on Wednesday. "The fastest I can get them to Fort Nelson would be Tuesday, at the easiest.".

At that very moment, the calm I had was gone. My Schedule was in jeopardy. "Shit! I'm supposed to meet Robyn on Friday?", I thought. As I considered Tuesday at the earliest and all the other issues I would have I became less and less calm. "Shit. How am I going to find a place to do the work? How will I wash the bike?" The stress mounted.

I hate letting people down to an almost pathological degree. Once I say I'm going to do something and something gets in the way of me making that happens, I'll damn near panic. It's completely irrational and is tied in with the Nightmare and the psychology resulting from it.

In the YML.COM forum Lance suggested that the calcium chloride muck had probably prevented the pads from moving causing them to wear prematurely. That makes sense.

On facebook, a couple of friends pointed out that when pads are worn down this far, it's possible for the brake pistons to push out far enough to cause fluid to leak by the seals Ruining Your Whole Day. Of course, this would most likely occur during a panic stop.

I paused. I considered spending five days in Fort Nelson waiting for parts. I considered the money it would cost to stay at a hotel there.

I called the shipping company to see if maybe they could ship to some nearby town more quickly. No luck. The northernmost point they could ship to overnight was Prince George, which was 500 miles away.

"Too far.", I thought as I realized trying to make time down to Prince George with dysfunctional brakes would be a crazy risk.

I felt defeated.

Then in a moment of clarity I remembered being stuck with a disfunctional clutch lever on Atigen Pass on the Dalton Highway. At that moment I felt none of the stress I was feeling now. All these other thoughts were crowding in preventing me from thinking more clearly.

What was different now?

I wanted to see Robyn. She owed me a glass of wine after all.

I wanted to meet Phil and Geo.

I had made commitments. People had made plans and changed schedules. Phil and Geo changed plans entirely. Just for me.

What was different at this moment was that other people were involved. Their lives affected by what I was able to accomplish or not accomplish. Stress.

I feared letting them down. I feared that sick to my stomach guilt when others have gone out of their way for me and I have to change plans. "I feel that way about not swinging back around to see Ian. I had said I would, but I spent too much time in Fairbanks and Valdez. I really wanted to see Ian and Tanya again.", I thought.

Can I let that fear go? Can I accept that maybe I will have to let them down?

"Maybe I could ride down to Prince George.", I considered. "The front brakes sort of work; they can stop the bike if I really need them to. The rear brake works but not well. Engine braking works. The road is sparsely travelled. I haven't had to do a single serious panic stop in the entire trip."

If I let go that /need/ to get down there. If I make a calm and measured attempt, without stress, without obligation, without the need to get there. I may have to decide it's too dangerous. I may have to stop at any moment. I may have no choice but to let them all down. If I can accept that with the same calm I had on the Dalton Highway, then maybe I can make the trip down, evaluating at each moment how dangerous it is.

"I'll go, but I'll go slowly and if I feel the risk is to great I'll just stop, even if it's on the side of the road.", I thought. "To accomplish a difficult task you have to decide what you are going to risk. I won't risk my life, but I will risk my commitments."

And I decided to do it slowly. Instead of trying to do the entire 500 mile run to Prince George in one day I would break it up into two days. I'll ride to Dawson Creek and then onto Prince George the next day. I reasoned that once I reached Dawson Creek I could evaluate the days ride and would then decide if I would continue on.

Feeling resolved and once again having that calm that I have grown to like Out Here, I walked over to the pub next door to the Fort Nelson Hotel and grabbed a bite to eat. There were truckers there and they matched the stereotype I had in my mind as to how truckers would behave. This was a serious contrast to James, the bear of a man I had met in Camp Coldfoot. One trucker leaned over and said, "I have a joke for you. Did you know that Kodak has invented a camera that can capture the millisecond when a woman has actually shut up?".

"And, if you had half a brain, you'd wonder why you're sitting here in this bar by yourself, asshole.", I thought as I considered the women whose stories I love to listen to. I didn't respond to him though. There was just no point.

First thing Thursday morning, I called the motel I had stayed at in Prince George to see if they could accept a package for me. I made a reservation and then called the motorcycle shop and asked them to overnight the brake pads to the motel.

I checked out, grabbed a quick bite to eat which, of course, was another omelette, packed up the bike and headed off tentatively. As I headed down the service road to the Alcan Highway, I tested the rear brake. It wasn't working very well. I practiced engine braking. I tried an aggressive engine brake downshifting through the gears to first. That worked reasonably well. "As long as nothing runs directly in front of me.", I thought.

I headed down the Alcan Highway and it was largely ok. There are wide margins on each side of the highway for most of it so you can see when a large critter is running out onto the road well in advance. Traffic was very light. Where there was traffic I opted to pass it. Cars and trucks have a nasty habit of randomly stepping on the brakes. When you have brakes that work well, this is not a problem. But in this situation, I didn't want anything in front of me.

Of course it started to rain heavily.

I rode on through the rain having to stop only to put the tank bag rain cover on. It had gotten quite cold so I decided not to make the mistake I had made on the Dalton Highway on the way to Deadhorse. I braved the cold and seriously wet for a few moments while I fumbled to put on the electric vest, trying to rush it. "To go fast you have to go slow.", Ryan, who races, would always say.

I let the rain come down and calmly put on the now somewhat wet electric vest and put my jacket over it. I plugged it in and flipped the switch.

"Ahhh. Warmth is good.".

I continued on through a whole tank of gas. I didn't stop to take any photos. I didn't want the distraction. I was making good time but aside from having to do two quick engine braking maneuvers when vehicles in front of me decided to randomly slow down to 30mph, the ride was entirely uneventful. As a matter of fact it was easy. The whole way I was honestly prepared to stop at any moment and give it all up.

Eventually, I needed to stop for gas.

I stopped at a lodge. They had coffee and some benches outside. A group of motorcyclists were there. Six or so in total. They were travelling up to Alaska. I paid for gas, grabbed a cup of coffee and stood outside chatting with them. They were older, I would guess in their mid to late 60's. They, of course, asked where I was coming from and I said "Deadhorse". One was going to try to head up to Deadhorse so they called over to him, "Hey, this guy just came down from there.". They asked me what the ride was like and I said it was a cakewalk.

This older gentleman was riding an R1200GS, an adventure style bike well suited for that road. He had tried to ride up to Deadhorse a few years earlier and said it was too sketchy so he turned around. He thought the road was terrible.

I asked him a few questions about the conditions and they seemed to match what I had ridden through. "It was just too sketchy. I couldn't maintain any kind of speed through the muck.", he said. That seemed telling to me. So I asked some more questions and he replied, "A buddy of mine was waiting for me. He didn't want to ride it so I thought I could just ride up quickly, do it, and ride back down. I had a schedule to keep.".

"So while you were riding you were always worrying about how much time was passing? Feeling stressed that you needed to make it in a certain period of time?", I asked. "Yea, if I kept going that slowly it would have taken 12 hours just to get up there. I just didn't have that kind of time.", he replied.

"Yea, that'll make it difficult. It's not the road that's difficult. It's the way you're riding it. The Dalton Highway is a road that needs it's own time. If you approach it thinking you have to do it in a certain time and have no room for errors, it will stress and distract you from the task at hand. If, however, you give the road all the time it needs, being willing at any moment to go slowly or even calmly stop, then the road becomes very easy and more fun. When you reach the 25mph sections, you do 25mph. When you have to stop to scrape off the hardened muck from your bike you just do it.", I explained.

"But what if I don't have the time?, he asked. "Then just don't ride the road", I replied.

He thanked me and decided to change his schedule up and back. He was going to do it in the four stages that I had done.

Lance always says "You have to give problems their own time. You can't force them. They take as long to solve as they take." The same applies to doing anything difficult. The trick is finding that balance between giving a problem it's time and letting it drag on far too long. When you are calm, that balance is much easier to find.

But it's more than just time. They take a clear mind. Adding extra layers of stress in addition to the problem you are trying to solve diverts your attention and energy from the task at hand and makes you more likely to make a mistake.

I thought for a long time about how I've been working these last several years. There have been so many distractions. There has been so much at stake. The Nightmare was made much worse by the feelings of obligation, duty and so badly not wanting to let important people down. All these distractions added up to create a buzz of stress in my mind which I could feel down as low as my chest.

I didn't have the calm in those times that I had now as I rode down the Alcan without well functioning brakes.

And then it hit me. The reason the Dalton Highway and now this Alcan trip were so easy was not that I didn't fear failure.

It was that I was willing to fail at any moment, when it made sense to.

I rolled into Dawson Creek early, around 5pm and checked into a hotel. I laid down for what I thought was a second only to realize two hours had passed.

I got dinner at a surprisingly nice steak house. After that I went back to the hotel and once again laid down on the bed still in my boots. I woke up after 3AM feet and hands swollen. I hate when that happens. Fall asleep wrong and my hands swell up around my ring making it impossible to take off. My feet had swollen in my boots. Painful.

I managed to pull all that off and went back to sleep for a few hours. It got up the next morning and repeated the process I had performed the previous day. Omelette. Pack the bike. Head on down the road.

The sun was shining. It was perfect weather. I was tired and had way too much coffee. Traffic was sparse. At one point, coming up on a construction site I saw a black bear cub cross the road a couple hundred yards ahead of me. I didn't need to slow down, but I did to tell the stop/slow sign woman that I saw a cub but did not see the mother. She thanked me for that several times.

I rode on, continuing my careful sans brakes riding style. Eventually, the coffee and water I had caught up to me and I need to stop to take a leak. On the far side of a bridge I found a little access path. I parked the bike and walked down the path.

Of course, there were pretty flowers.

The path itself was rideable but challenging. When adventure riders would describe the gravel sections of the Dalton Highway I always imagined it would be a road like this.

Now this stuff will tear up tires.

Deciding, since I was still tired, that I should take a longer break I walked down to the river to take a look. It was simply a beautiful day, of which I have had so many up here in British Columbia.

I eventually went back to the bike and continued to ride on through the rest of my tank of gas and then another. On the second gas stop, only 50 miles outside of Prince George I ran into a guy named Steve who was riding a Harley. We had actually seen each other at a construction stop/slow sign. He was headed somewhere around Prince Rupert. At first he seemed like a "real" Harley guy, whatever that is. But slowly the geek in him came out. I asked him what he did and he replied, "Small engine work and blacksmithing.". "Blacksmithing?", I said quizzicaly. "Yea, I make battle axes and knifes. You know, SCA stuff.", he replied. He had two battle axes with him but he didn't feel like unpacking everything to show them to me, but he did have a knife he had made. It was highly polished, thick and well made.

What I had envisioned as a quick pitstop turned into an extended conversation. We talked for quite a while. He's on facebook and I think mentioned that he had a page where he shows some of his creations. We were both heading towards Prince George so he suggested we ride together. So we did.

I was a little concerned about the traffic into Prince George. It was much heavier than it had been anywhere else on the Alcan. Some of the stop lights were a bit challenging to stop for. Steve rode on to his destination and I followed the GPS's instructions to the Downtown Motel. I got there around 6. The parts were there and they were the right ones.

I txt'd Robyn to let her know I had arrived. We agreed to meet at the restaurant where we first me at 8. It was around the corner from the motel so I could walk. She had a few things to take care of. I needed to remind myself to ask her if there was any place in town she could think of where I might be able to wash my bike and work on it. That would be the first thing I would have to do the next day. I figured I could wash the bike, get the pads replaced and be on my way by the early afternoon.

Improbable as it sounds, especially to me, life would have other plans for me.

As I write this I am still in Prince George, BC and it's now Monday morning. Robyn left for work a little while ago after putting her very busy and demanding life on hold to spend the weekend with me, partly intentionally, partly as a lucky coincidence of failed plans.

I am now about to, sadly, hit the road once again. I now have another place, person and moment in time I will miss.

I'll post an update soon, hopefully tomorrow.

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 21:57:53 EST

Brake problems and miles and not sleeping much have conspired to prevent me from having the kind of time to write.

I hope to have some time tomorrow to catch up on travel events ...

Road Report Day 46 - Dani, a real adventure rider

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 22:35:07 EST

I did not sleep well. Exhausted, I dragged my worthless feeling carcass out of bed and stood under the shower for a while trying to shake this funk I was still in. It wasn't as bad as the previous day, but I was still down.

The hotel wasn't bad and there was a cafe downstairs. I had an omelette, which has become customary on this entire trip. The waitress, who I believe was Chinese and spoke with a thick accent, remembered me from before and asked me if I was staying in town. I mentioned that I had ridden up to Deadhorse and back and was just passing through on my way back home. It's funny how people react to this idea of riding a motorcycle somewhere. It doesn't matter the persons background or culture there's something about doing a lot of miles by motorcycle that captures peoples imagination.

I had noticed a Starbucks down the street the night before and eagerly awaited my first cup of real coffee in what seems like forever. My little motorcycle espresso maker hasn't been doing well for me. I don't know if I have a bad bag of espresso or the machine just isn't getting hot enough, but the espresso it makes isn't nearly as good as it used to be.

"Ahh, real coffee ...", I thought as I sat outside with my sunglasses on. The sun was shining and it was warm. The bike had been making an odd noise which I was having trouble identifying. This was because, well, I'm a fucking genius. More on that later. A friend who had read my last post was concerned about me. She was texting trying to pull me out of the darkness. Sometimes the smallest gestures can have the biggest impact. A number of friends sent messages. Thank you. My friends are family. Without them I would never have made it and I would not be standing now.

My guts were hurting again. It seems like this has been happening more often. I was, once again, fortunate to be so close to a bathroom. This has started to get a bit old.

As I pondered the state of my motorcycle and my guts, I was reminded that I was in the Yukon. You ask, "How can you tell you're in the Yukon?". Well, a very hot barby doll blonde wearing silly sunglasses walked up and started talking to an Innuit looking guy pretty much right in front of me. She could not have been more than 21.

"Hiya!", she says to the Innuit looking guy who was probably in his early 60's. He speaks very softly and I couldn't hear what he was saying. She exclaimed to the guy, "Oh ja, In the fall, I'll head up North of Fort Yukon to my uncles cabin, eh? Ja. I gotta haul some wood. Then I'll go huntin' and trappin'. Maybe I'll do some fishin'. Cool, eh?". I can never remember where they put the "Ja"'s and the "Eh?"'s, but you get the idea. "Ja, I know, right, eh?".

If the hot blondes haul wood, hunt, trap and fish, you know you're in the Yukon.

They parted company and I was once again left with my thoughts. "It's going to get less interesting from here on out.", I thought as I considered the difference between heading up to Deadhorse and heading away. On the route up, I met countless like minded adventure riders who all had the same goal. It added a group quality to a solo trip to see the same faces randomly over and over on the ride up. But now, with all those riders dispersed I figured this would be much less likely to happen.

I mustered the willpower to avoid a second cup of coffee, got on my bike and headed for points East and South on the Alcan highway.

It was beautiful as it had been before. There were a ridiculous number of lakes.

Some were larger.

Some were smaller.

The weather was beautiful and I was feeling a bit better than I had been evidenced by the fact that 66 miles rolled by before I looked at the odometer.

It was warm and the bugs were out in force.

I rode on, still not in the mood to take photographs. I spent the time thinking. "This writing thing helps.", I would think as I considered what effect it's had.

In this space I attempt to share this journey. With that sharing, I have to explain and describe myself in ways I never have. It's happened quite a few times now that I write something only to read it later and realize that I've never thought of myself in those particular terms. There are things on this trip, details about travelling by motorcycle, details about myself, that people seem to find interesting that I would never have considered describing.

I have often said that "knowing yourself" is not an accurate phrase. You know who you are to yourself alone in the dark. What's important is to know yourself in relation to others. If I know how I am different than you, how my experience is different from yours and yours from mine, we can have a basis for better understanding how to get to know one another. We can better know how to explain ourselves to each other. Misunderstandings, misconceptions and miscommunications are easier to avoid if you understand yourself in relation to the person or people you are with.

But somehow, you have to discover these differences.

In my case, writing this blog has helped me see some of these differences, differences in experience.

"What other things would I never think to write about?", is a question I repeatedly ask myself.

I ride a motorcycle. Not everyone does. Fewer ride a motorcycle well. Fewer still have ridden one for over 250K miles or travelled across country. Even fewer have ridden for as long as I have. I was forced into riding motorcycles at the age of 7 which was 35 years ago but that's a story for another time.

Out here you forget that not everyone rides or has taken Long Sunday Drives. Everyone rides a motorcycle and I am the noob, the untravelled one. My story as a motorcyclist out here is completely uninteresting. "It's just miles.", one rider said.

But the vast majority of people who I know have never ridden. "Interesting.", I thought. "Is there something here, something so familiar to me, that it would never dawn on me to describe?", I asked of myself.

Why a motorcycle and why not a car? The thought of travelling by car is entirely unappealing to me for some reason. I think about a car. You're in this cage, this box. You can't feel the wind. You can't really feel the road or the engine. You are looking at everything through a glass window much like a television set. These are the typical things I hear riders say. I say them myself.

But there's more to riding miles by motorcycle than being out in the elements. There's more to it than being able to lean, or feel like, as so many say, you're "one with the machine", a cliche that's gotten over used. I could use flowery language and attempt to capture the culture, the poetry, the romance, and the calm meditativeness of many miles by motorcycle.

In a car, you jump in, distracted by gadgetry, you turn the ignition and you go. It's purely a means to an end and the focus of most vehicles especially now a days is to isolate you from the details; maximize convenience, minimize involvement with "the machine". It's a means to an end. A way to get from here to there with a minimum of hassle.

In contrast, travelling by motorcycle is almost nothing but hassle. It's cold. It's wet. There are bugs. BIG bugs. And they splatter all over the place. After a while, your leathers, despite all the comments that have been made about them, begin to stink something fierce. You hurt. You hurt alot. You get dirty. You have all this gear which you have to load and unload. Your tires wear out in 6,000 miles, not 60,000. You can fall down. Parking lot maneuvers especially on wavy gravel can be embarrassingly challenging. It's tiring. Because of the Risk, you are more vigilant on a bike than you are in a car.

"But yet", I thought, "I would gladly travel across this country on a motorcycle, on my motorcycle, than in any car. Well, maybe with the exception of a Porsche 911 twin turbo. Why is that?".

And that is a question I have never asked. The answer for me is so self evident, so inately obvious, I don't know if I can capture it in words. Anyone with a pulse who has been Out Here knows this, understands this. You can just tell. It's evident on the faces of riders everywhere.

There is something visceral, something primal about the motorcycle. It seems to cross all cultural and racial boundaries. It may be that it evokes some primeval genetic memory of riding horseback.

There's an inherent culture and ritual to motorcycling. All of us Out Here feel it. It's not some made up artificial ritual that we decided upon because we felt out of touch. The rituals of motorcycling grow organically within each motorcyclist just out of the necessity of the task at hand. And out of this necessity that produced these rituals a common culture evolves. And this culture trancends political boundaries.

This is not over-romanticized. It's a simple fact. Talk to any rider from any country anywhere in the world. There is an instant common basis for communication, for exchange, for understanding. There is an instant basis upon which to share an adventure with that person. It goes well beyond a shared hobby, some little diversion.

I would imagine sailors share something similar.

As I considered what's different about the riders out here and I consider my closest friends I ride with, Ian, Duncan, Bruce, I found myself wondering what is it about motorcyclists, the ones who do this seriously, that produces this instant common basis, this common culture.

Motorcycling is dangerous. It involves risk. We all understand this. We talk about it all the time. "A friend of mine crashed yesterday on the Dalton and shattered two vertebrate.", was a conversation today. I have always felt it's this common understanding of risk, that we are Out Here doing something challenging, something risky, that produces the ritual of waving. As you ride and you see a motorcyclist approaching, you wave. The left hand comes off the bar and you hold your hand out low as a sign of respect.

It's part of the common culture. You will see motorcyclists everywhere around the world do this. I wave at every single motorcyclist that I pass. It's courtesy. I've done it maybe 50 times this very day. I even catch myself from time to time doing it when I walk down the street. The first time someone waves at you when you are on a bike, it feels like a rite of passage. "yes, you too are now Out Here, one of us, solely because you have taken this risk to be on two wheels."

A Harley rider once said, "It don't matter, as long as you're on two wheels with a motor I wave.".

Strangely, I don't wave at scooter riders. Scooters are about convenience and I think that's what separates them from motorcyclists. The rituals just aren't there on a scooter because it's too convenient and thus there isn't the factual basis for a shared culture.

Motorcycling is inconvenient. Beyond risk, there are other practical realities of miles by motorcycle that create a ritualistic backdrop to the activity.

In the morning, and yes Out Here I experience mornings, you have to pack up your gear. Space is very tight on a motorcycle. You can always tell the ones who have been Out Here for a while. Each and every item they carry on their bike is considered and has it's place. There's an order and process to packing the motorcycle which is born out of necessity. There's just not a lot of room. Do this enough times and it becomes ritual. Be around someone else who has done this enough times and there is instantly a common ritual.

The gear is carried out to the bike. There's a tank bag which is affixed atop the gas tank, hence it's name "tank bag". Here is where you carry your camera, wallet, maps, gps and other gear that you use while you ride or stop on the side of the road. There's the tail bag, which goes on the back seat of the bike or the rear cowling, which typically contains your clothes, your tent, maybe food, stuff you only use once you've stopped somewhere.

It takes time. Ride with someone who has done this for a while and there is no sense of rush. It takes however long it takes. Sometimes you fumble. Sometimes you just can't get it all put away just right. It's part of the experience.

Then you put on your jacket. It has impact armor around the shoulders, in the elbows and down the back. You have long since put on your "lowers", your armored pants which have impact armor around the hips and knees. There are few pockets, so what you would normally carry in jeans pockets, you put in the tank bag. Putting on the jacket is awkward.

There's a silly zipper that you use to connect the jacket to the pants. If you fall and go skidding down the road you don't want the jacket to ride up on you exposing your back. Not everyone zips their pants to their jacket, but I do.

Then in go the earplugs. Especially on my bike, there's alot of wind noise. On goes the helmet. Often times, this is the point where you've forgotten to get out the plastic cleaner and rag to clean off the array of bug entrails that have splattered against the face shield. It happens to you. You are patient when it happens to others. You affix the strap and put on your sunglasses. You put on your gloves and wrap the gauntlet around the outside of the end of your jacket sleeves so no bugs can fly up into your jacket that way. Yes, that happened to me once.

You throw your leg over the bike, or if you have alot of gear it's more of a step through motion that looks silly. You put effort into lifting the bike off the side stand or pushing it off the center stand. Key in the ignition you set the fast idle and press the ignition. I usually wait a couple of seconds before pushing the ignition. No reason, it feels right to me.

Then you wait. Virtually every serious motorcyclist you will ever see will pause at this moment. The engine idles slightly fast, but not too fast. The oil is let to circulate through the motor for a few moments. Then, if you are riding with someone, you nod acknowledging who will be leader and who will follow. The clutch lever, on the left bar, is pulled in. You click the bike into gear with your left foot giving it just a little bit of throttle and you let out the clutch. You lift both feet simultenously and put them on the pegs regardless of the surface you're on. (Newbie riders will always "walk" the bike along or leave their legs out while they gain enough speed for lack of confidence.) Riding relatively slowly you don't rev the motor too high until it's reached operating temperature because you are more involved with the engine and tires on a motorcycle. Through experience you know the bike doesn't feel right cold. It vibrates more. It doesn't make the power it's supposed to. The tires slip much more easily. So you wait, you wait until the bike is warmed up. The tires are warm and sticky.

Then you go.

This reality, from having to lug gear and affix it to a bike "just so", to donning all that gear like some middle ages knight preparing for battle, to being involved with the machine .. it all takes time. After you have done it enough times, it becomes a kind of meditation. To go by motorcycle involves this time. There's no getting around it. Even if you are in a rush, even if you have to go NOW, you must go through this ritual. Do it too hasitly and gear falls off the bike. Your helmet isn't on right. You've forgotten your earplugs or sunglasses. Things just aren't Right.

And, as I think about what makes miles by motorcycle so different than miles by car, it's these rituals. It forces you to pause. To prepare. To understand that there is a ritual separation between being still and Going. By the time you are under way, you are in a different place internally.

You are more involved with the machine when riding a motorcycle. You feel the engine, how it vibrates. You feel the tires and can immediately tell how well they are gripping. You are more involved with the road. Surface becomes a concept. "good road, good tarmac, good pavement" are concepts. The little squiggly black stripes you ignore in a car, called tar snakes, are slippery when hot. When wet, did you know the yellow and white paint lines are a slippery as oil? Every motorcyclist who's ever hit brakes on one or taken a corner too sharp over one knows. It's quite the wakeup call. Different kinds of pavement, different surfaces, have a different feeling. You can sense it on a motorcycle.

Motorcycling is active, not passive. You are Out There. You lean. To brake you tense up your leg, stomach and arm muscles to counter the braking effect so you're not thrown over the handlebars. You worry about "the line". A corner comes up. How often do you think, in a car, about how you're going to take that corner? Is it ever a thought? You approach a slow right hand corner on a fast road, you move to the left of your lane. You move your whole body to the right a bit. If it's a sharp corner and you're going fast, maybe you move your ass off the seat and stick your right leg out preparing for a lean all the while counteracting the center of gravity change which makes the bike went to lean. Then you pick your entry point to the corner. You go in late, letting the bike go further into the corner than you would in a car. This enables you to look through the corner to see where your exit point will be and what hazards there might be. Then you let the bike lean ... and it falls into the corner with the feeling that you're flying. Sometimes you can lean the bike over so far your feet will scrape the ground. And when you've travelled through you accelerate moving your body back towards center and with a slight press on the handlebar the bikes stands up again.

On a motorcycle each corner is prepared for and considered. There's planning. Forethought. You have to. Of course, there are time you slip up and you don't plan right and you come into a corner too hot and get scared. Or there's gravel. Motorcyclists fear gravel. In motorcycling there is fear.

It's another thing that binds us. Common fear.

Riding is also a strangely lonesome yet social activity. You are confined in your helmet stuck on this machine carving canyons. It's alone time. It's quiet time. It's time to think. To imagine. Away from the distractions and interruptions of life.

I think I travel by motorcycle because of all of the above. The process, the rituals, the culture, the riding, the challenge, the skill. It centers and focuses me. It fires my imagination and fuels my dreams. It provides me a ritual space where I meditate. It calms me. Out Here I am free to think and dream in a way I find impossible in a car or at home.

I hope to find some time at some point to bind all this together better. It's a hint at what I feel and think about motorcycling, but in rereading it doesn't capture it as well as I would like.

But more than enough rambling for now.

I was feeling ok. The miles were ticking by. The bike felt good. The road surface was good with just the occasional gravel patch. I was making good time.

I stopped to get gas. I was well on my way to Liard Hot Springs where I had intended on camping. So many people had said to go there, that I was intent on making it. It was 400 miles from Whitehorse.

It was a log cabin lodge and restaurant like so many gas stations along the Alcan. Despite feeling pressure that I wanted to make time, I decided to stop and get something to eat. I wasn't hungry but I knew I wasn't feeling well and being hungry would just add to my burdens.

As I sat there, waiting for my food and sipping on a cup of bad coffee, through the window I saw an adventure rider roll up. He was riding a Honda Transalp which I immediately recognized as a European-only bike. "Ok, that's interesting.", I thought. I saw a sticker for his web site, www.daninviaggio.it. I saw the "Long Way Dany" sticker and thought this was someone to talk to. "Long Way Round" is one of my all time favorite movies/miniseries.

He walked in and I asked pointedly, "So where are you riding in from?" With an Italian accent he answered, "Land of Fire, Argentina". "Damn!, how long have you been on the road?", I asked, which is the typical question one asks. When I say 46 days most people seem to be impressed.

"Two years", he said.

"Holy shit!", I thought. "Here, sit down, please join me.", I said pointing to the seat in front of me. He wanted coffee and asked the waittress. She pointed him at the pot. He poured himself a cup and then offered to refill mine.

We got to talking. Because of the number of people who have said I need to do that trip and the varied impressions I've gotten I was very curious.

"So how was it travelling from Tierra Del Fuego to here? Did you run into any problems?". He said, "No not really. The bike ran good." "I mean with people. I hear all kinds of bad stories. Did you have any problems with people?", I asked.

"Oh. Yes. I got robbed three times. Twice with a knife. Once I was camping and three guys broke into the tent while I was sleeping.", he said matter of factly, "but it can happen anywhere. You just have to expect it."

"What happened?", I asked with increasing interest. "They took stuff. Money. Once they stole my laptop. It's manageable. You just have to be smart and careful. Keep your money separated".

He went on to explain that he had planned and saved up for two years to do this trip. When he started out he had no real agenda as to where he was going to go. For, I believe he said, the first year and a half his, now ex, girlfriend was with him. He travelled from Argentina all the way up to Deadhorse and was now travelling across Canada to New York. He was doing this on the most incredibly tight shoe string budget. "I have $1200 right now. It has to last. I've been camping for the last 30 days straight. You live in a tent for two years, it gets to be old.", he commented without sounding at all like he was complaining. He needed to get tires soon and was worried about the expense. He explained that he would stop in places and get odd jobs to make money to fund his trip.

He had also intended on heading to the Liard Hot Springs.

"Why don't we ride over there together?", I suggested. He was hungry so ordered the same thing I was having, a salsbury steak without sauce along with a bunch of steamed carrots.

"Do you have a woman?", he asked. I looked at him puzzled. "I mean you married, kids? or have a girlfriend?", he clarified. "Nope. Nothing. No wife. No kids. No girlfriend", I replied. "Is best.", he said. Then he corrected himself, "I mean when you travelling. Maybe for life is not so good. It's good to have a woman to share your life with, just not when you are travelling for a long time.". I mentioned Thomas and Andrea, who travelled together by motorcycle for one and a half years. They stayed with me for a wonderful week. I host their website, miles-to-ride.com. "If a relationship can withstand a trip like that, it can withstand anything.", I said.

I was really enjoying the conversation. He was very Italian and had that European perspective that I encounter too rarely outside of the German meetup group I attend.

As I listened to his stories of travelling for this length of time and invoking famous stories from ages ago, I found myself thinking, "now this is a real adventure rider".

"It's just kilometers.", he said. "I don't care about how long or how many kilometers. That's irrelevant. I like to travel. I have a passion for motorcycles. I combine the two. What's important for me is what I learn along the way. The people I meet. The story."

"This sounds strangely familiar to me.", I replied thinking about things I believe I mentioned even within this blog. "A kindred spirit.", I found myself thinking, "maybe it's a European thing.". So much of what he said rang true to me.

He had mentioned how tight money was and how he wanted to get back to Italy and possible ride South through Africa or maybe East through Asia. "When you are Italian, you can do these things. Nobody cares about Italians. We are not important.", he would say. "People always say 'oh, Italians, good looking, good food, beautiful women.". "But if you have a US passport it's hard. I've seen so many Americans have problems at border crossings. From what I have seen the world does not like Americans.", he cautioned as I mentioned maybe wanting to do other trips. "It's best to have an EU passport. You'll have no trouble.", he advised.

I asked if he wrote a blog. "I have a website but it's only in Italian. My english is not so good.", he explained, "mostly I produce videos. Sometimes I write for magazines."

When the bill came I asked if I could buy lunch for him. "I have some money.", I said. I paid the bill and we agreed to travel together to Liard. "I haven't camped in two weeks, I think.", I said. "I've camped every night for the last 30 days.", he replied. "Well, if I have someone to camp with, to talk to around a campfire, then I'm happy to camp. This is good.", I replied.

It was agreed. We walked out to the bikes, got on our gear. Because I had never ridden with him before I suggested he lead. I didn't know what kind of rider he was or how fast he liked to travel. He was riding a Transalp, which is a 650 twin. not a very fast motorcycle but bulletproof and very highly regarded. Many world travellers ride them.

We got underway. He has what I would imagine is an Italian riding style. He likes to use the entire lane swaying back and forth. This was a bit disconcerting. My friends and I ride military style, in a formation. The leader picks a side of the lane. The follower rides on the other side. The rest behind stagger accordingly to offer each rider the maximum view and stopping distance in front of him. Dani liked to use the whole road. But it was ok. I got used to it and the speed was reasonable.

His bike is not as fuel efficient as mine so we did stop to get gas along the way in Watson Lake. The bugs were just terrible. It seemed like we had to stop every 50 miles or so to clear the faceshields.

Eventually we crossed from the Yukon into British Columbia.

We got onto the section of the Alcan where they were doing construction. Alot of construction. More than I remember. So we stopped at one of the stop/slow guys. It was a several minute wait so we pulled off our helmets. I was grateful for this as my earplugs were killing me. Agony.

The slow/stop construction guy was happy to take a photo of us.

After we got through the construction site, the sun was pretty low on the horizon and we heading east. He had mentioned that he liked to shoot video so I had mentioned my GoPro hero cam that I can mount to my helmet. I rode ahead and motioned for us to stop. "Would you like me to shoot some video of you on your bike?", I asked figuring that maybe he didn't have any shots of him for his videos underway. "It shoots in 720p", I explained.

"Yes! Thank you! In two years I never thought to ask anyone!", he said.

So I fumbled with the camera, started recording, mounted it to the helmet, adjusted the angle and we got undderway.

It's always too easy to misalign the camera so you never know how it's going to turn out. Later on we found that we had done it correctly. The video wasn't bad at all. Good light.

After about 16 minutes of filming I stopped to pull of the camera. At 70mph, Kevin the mounty, that's a typo, I mean 70km, the wind resistance on the camera is quite strong and it strains my neck.

We rode on and once again encountered the buffalo. He had never seen one before.

We rode on for the rest of the way. It was a 200 mile stretch that we rode together. By the end it was starting to feel like a long way. The fact that I had not slept much the last two nights was catching up to me. I was having some trouble staying awake. Then we came up on Liard Hot Springs.

"Shit, campsite full", I thought as I read the sign. We stopped. "The campsite is full. I don't know how far the next campground is.", he said. I was tired. I was too tired to continue. We were in the parking lot of the lodge. I saw a vacancy sign in the window. "Fuck it. Let's get a room at the lodge.", I complained because I was tired. "I can't afford it.", he said looking very tentative and apologetic. "I bet they have rooms with two beds. My treat. I can't ride any further.", I said.

"I haven't slept in a bed in 30 days.", he said looking grateful in that honest way that only someone who has truly been uncomfortable can muster.

We checked into the room, performed the ritual unpacking of the motorcycles, and decided, since it was still light, to go check out the hotsprings. Thankfully Bruce had given me a pair of swimming trunks. I grabbed a towel, the trunks and a camera. Dani grabbed similar items. We stuffed them all into a bag and we walked to the springs not knowing what to expect. "Oh look. Beautiful sunset. We should take a picture.", he said.

And we took a photo at the hotsprings park entrance.

There was a long boardwalk through a landscape that reminded me of Yellowstone. Most of the land here was covered in mineral water.

The hotsprings themselves are exactly as advertised. Beautiful.

This is actually where the hot water emanates. It creates a layer of near scaldingly hot water about 3 inches deep on the top. This mixes with another cooler spring, not shown in the photo, to the right.

They are not entirely wild though. There's a changing room and a bathroom and steps leading into the springs.

There's a small falls and a lower pool that is much cooler. It the flows into a small stream that I can only describe as being something out of Pan's Labyrinth. The stream has cut a winding tunnel like moss covered path between the trees. Ledges angled in. I should have, if I was the genius I claim to be, taken the indestructible water proof camera. It was simply beautiful and was a landscape described in fantasy novels. Amazing. I have not seen any place like it ever.

Since we were here, despite it being near closing time, we decided to give it a try.

The Italian seemed comfortable in this nearly searing hot water.

The pale displaced Germanic beast from the deep was less so.

Egads say it isn't so. It went into the water. Without it's shirt on.

It was hot. Very hot. But you got used to it. So of course, being masochists, we had to move towards the source of the hot water. It was crazy hot. Near skin burning hot, but we perservered. The formations and the source and how the water bubbles up in little streams from underground was fascinating. Very cool indeed.

We only stayed for about half an hour. It was just too hot.

As we walked back, I heard something in the distance. I do not know why but, upon hearing the sound, I immediately knew what it was.

Moose! Or as Carol might have said, "Meese!"

This time I captured the silly ears up being curious look mooses are prone to make when looking at something they don't understand. This moose and it's calf were quite a ways away. At extreme zoom in low light my camera does not do that well.

We went back to the room and examined the videos we had shot earlier. He showed me some of the videos he had produced which are available on YouTube. Some are in English.

I had a bottle of Irish Whiskey and I offered him a shot. "BMW guys seem to always have Whiskey", he said knowingly.

He had asked me some time earlier, as so many people have, what are you doing out here. My answer has been simply, "I've been through some bad times. I'm out here trying to get my head screwed on straight.".

I was tired and about ready to call it a night when he asked, "So tell me, what happened?". This is always dangerous, but he seemed honestly interested and asked questions, so I gave him a moderately brief yet honest run down of the Nightmare. Strangely, in this telling, it seemed worse to me. I shared with him maybe 25% of what happened and even with that he said, "It's too much.". Meaning I guess it's too much for a person to handle.

"I can tell you still have alot of pain, alot of anger, about this story. But it's over. You have to close that door and live you life. Enjoy you life.", he commented.

"That's not hard. What's hard is trying to figure out how what's happened is affecting how I make decisions. Part of why I am out here is to See and Think Differently, but to do that I can't close those doors. I have to understand how what happened is coloring my views of what I think is possible."

It's a small world. I spent a day with a guy whose trip makes mine really look like just a simple and mundane Long Sunday Drive. He's from Italy and he rode his bike up from Tierra Del Fuego, was robbed at knifepoint more than once, has had untold real adventures. I found myself thinking he's a kind of man who seems out of place in this modern world. In this time. The age of exploration is over, but this man would have fit into that age very well.

To which he would say, "It's only kilometers. I've met people out here who have been riding for years. 5, 10, 15. It's just numbers. What have they learned?".

Road Report Day 45 - Heading East and not happy about it.

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 04:49:16 EST

I don't know what got to me. Something did. Some thought, sound or image. It happens sometimes. It's not just that a memory is triggered, at times a feeling is triggered and I'm back in that dark place I spent so much time in and with no one around to pull me out I descend into it's depths.

I didn't sleep well. I had fitful dreams and when I finally did awake I was in an even darker place. Burdened as if by a terrible weight and withdrawn, it was as if my reason for waking up was no longer there. Where did it go? Wasn't I, even just a day ago, motivated to get up, to wander, to explore? But this morning, hands swollen, tired, and deep inside myself, I felt no will to live. I felt as if I didn't even have the energy to exist. I was removed from the world. I was peering out through a distant tunnel. Vision as if through a haze. Sounds muffled. Even my sense of touch somehow muted. I was suffering an existential fatigue.

I get like this sometimes. Deep deep sadness. At home, when this happens, I halt. I do nothing. But out here, on the road I was forced to get up and get moving by external forces. Checkout time loomed large and I had to attempt to write. Obligation, in this case checkout time, drove me through the haze.

The internet connection at the hotel was terrible. It took forever to load anything and even then, after a while of editing, it wouldn't go through. It didn't matter. I was dismayed at my inability to write. All the openness I felt and all the insights were gone. Frustrated at my own emptiness, I typed in a few sentences and hit submit. I read what I wrote and thought "That's the me I remember. Not the me here, but the me there. Mired in the stress and closed."

It was time to find some coffee and something to eat. I dragged my gear and mounted it onto the bike. There was a diner down the street. To my dismay they had just stopped serving breakfast literally one minute before. I sat there, still in a daze, still seeing the world as if through a distant lens. A KTM rider was there but I had no desire to talk to him. I couldn't think of anything to say. He looked, like so many others, as if he were heading up to the Dalton Highway.

After breakfast, which looked like lunch, I went to get gas just to be safe. I couldn't remember how far away the next gas station was. I was so unhappy about seeing the "route east" signs. A man walked up to me and said, "I've been riding BMW's for 20 years and have three of them." We got to talking a bit, but I was still having trouble. A heavy weight still hung over me and I tried to force myself to continue the conversation. He had been all the way to Tierra Del Fuego in addition to a bunch of other places. He had done the Dalton 5 times. I started snapping out of my malaise a bit, but still heavy I asked him a few questions about it. He seemed to think going through Columbia was a bit dicey, but other than a few minor mechanical problems, he didn't have any problems on his trip. He gave me his contact info saying, "You should do that trip. It's a great one.". I'll contact him when I get home. I'm thinking about that trip more now ...

As I was about to leave the station, an enduro rider pulled up the gas pump. "Heading up the Dalton?", I asked. "Of course. You know it's gotta be done.". It's funny how almost any enduro or adventure rider on the Alcan highway is heading up to Deadhorse. I chatted with him for a few moments and then donned my gear and still bearing this weight headed on down the road.

I didn't feel like taking any pictures. We've already seen it all before. Beautiful mountains. Check. Incredible lakes. Check. Critters. Check. I mused about how miserable I was feeling as I passed through endless forests bounded by glacier capped peaks punctuated by deep blue lakes on a once in a lifetime trip that so many would like to undertake. This place seems normal to me now. I've seen bear, moose, caribou, buffalo, wolverines, fox, and a host of other critters. Without some deeper insight, some deeper more meaningful way to experience the subject, once you've seen one, the others tend to not be as interesting. I thought about that for a while.

There's something silly about "seeing". I've "seen" thousands of bears in books and on the television. I've "seen" endless mountainscapes and lakes. But there is something to "seeing" in person that differentiates the experience. To see a glacier up close and personal. To feel the cold wind coming down off it. To "be" in front of the thing is different. It's more real somehow. But I find this desire, this almost need, to delve into each place to a greater depth but am unable to do so. Travelling across this vast land I feel like a dilettante just glossing over everything quickly, never being able to fully experience any one spot or person. I get tastes of a place. Tastes of people. But that's it. I never get the chance to fill in the collage and am left with a canvas of mostly empty space with only a few colorful outlines and I am frustrated by it.

I wanted to reach Whitehorse. It was only 388 miles away but these were hard miles because of how I was feelinig. It was cool, but not cold. The sun was not too intense. The miles dragged on though. Normally 50 miles pass before I check the odometer but today I was checking it every 5 miles feeling like it had been 50. Everything hurt and I was still heavy with the burdensome dreams of the previous night.

As I rode further down the Alcan, the sun came out in earnest and it got to be slightly warmer. The bugs came out. Suddenly there were just a ridiculous number of dragon flies. I mean truly ridiculous. They were everywhere. Unlike any other time on this ride, they seemed to find every possible way to get around the fairing and impact me directly. Dragon fly guts everywhere, I was becoming actively unhappy. These dragonflies are large. Very large. One got me in the chest, another on the neck which hurt!

Disgusting. Poor dragonflies.

I had forgotten about the construction on the Alcan. It was 20 miles of perfectly graded and compacted earth over which a water truck drove just ahead of me. The road turned to muck and it got all over everything. Slippery, nasty, sticky muck.

As I rolled up to the visitor center not far from the Canadian border, I grabbed the front brake as I usually do an "Oh Shit! no brakes!" as nothing happened and I rolled quite a bit further, like 5 feet, than I had intended to.

I'm guessing the muck got all over the rotors and on the pads preventing the brakes from grabbing. I wasn't going fast. I usually use the engine to slow down and reserve the brake for the last little bit. But I was on gravel at the time I needed the brake. It was a bit startling.

I was awake now. My brake rotors look a little worse for wear. I will probably need a new set of front rotors by the time I get back. They are expensive.

I hung out for a little while outside at the visitor center. I wanted to let the water truck get on down the road. I was tired of the mud spray getting over everything.

As is the case with so many buildings, it was built in a log cabin style using simply huge beams. This building also had a green roof which I failed to notice the first time I was here. I have to admit I really like this style of construction.

My fog was slowly beginning to lift but I was still very unhappy. My earplugs had started to really hurt again and my right hip was causing me trouble not to mention my back and shoulders were really sore.

Bitch. Moan. Complain.

I got back on the bike and rode however many miles of dirt, mud and muck until I got through the Canadian border.

You can sense an immediate change when you enter Canada. It starts with the customs officer. He's nice. He's friendly. He smiles. The anger is just not there.

You also immediately notice how clean everything is. There's alot of trash in Alaska as there is in most of the US. But Canada is clean. It's as if Canadians like their country and want it to look pretty.

I entered the bad section of the Alcan between Beaver Creek and Destruction Bay. Yes, there's a place called Destruction Bay. This was that section of road that was supposed to be so horrible but was a cakewalk on the way up.

I don't remember it being this challenging. I guess it was because I was down, tired and carrying some mysterious weight that made what was previously very easy much more difficult. I didn't remember how deep these ruts were or how frequent. On a few occasions I had to stand up on the pegs because I missed a rift in the road and drove right through it. I wondered if maybe the angle of the sun was making it more difficult to see the heaves, dips and cracks in the road or if maybe the eastern route was just worse than the other side. Nevertheless, it proved to be a much more disquieting ride than the ride up. Maybe it was because I now had it set in my mind that it was easy. Looking at the speedometer I think I was also trying to go faster than I should have. It's all about perspective and perception. Believe it's hard and it becomes easy. Visa versa seems to also be true.

I had stopped at Beaver Creek for gas. I saw on Facebook that Rick was leaving Destruction Bay so thinking ahead I grabbed a large bottle of water for him on the off chance I would actually see him on my way down. Having set a precedent I wanted to keep up the tradition.

As I rode on I noticed some movement in a small lake. Moose in water! Funny critters. It stopped at one point and raised it's ears in my general direction looking rather silly while staring at me. Unfortunately, I didn't capture that because it went back to what it was doing too quickly.

I was beginning to worry that maybe I had passed Rick without realizing it. I saw a number of bicyclists but none of them had Rick's yellow gear. Then I saw him in the distance at a rest stop.

He seemed as happy to see me as I was to see him. I rolled up next to his bicycle and said "Good to see you again!", shaking his hand.

We chatted for a bit about conditions on the Dalton. He was concerned about the cold and the mosquitoes. Horseflies were buzzing about around us. My impression was the road has started to wear on him. He's had too many cold nights of camping and it seemed like he wanted his trip to be in the rearview.

Me on the other hand, I simultaneously don't want to go home but, at least today, have little energy to keep going.

He had had the same concern as I did. He said he kept looking at BMW riders. I guess we all look the same. (laugh).

He had met a few pairs of riders who were doing the Prudhoe Bay to Tierra Del Fuego run on bicycles. One couple he talked to was taking out 18 months to do that trip. "That's too long for me!", he said. "I miss my bed. I miss my dog. I'm tired of camping. Every day it's a new pain.".

If crazy Europeans can do it on bicycles ... then again, we don't hear much from the ones who don't make it and get kidnapped having body parts shipped back as proof for ransom.

I shared with him what I knew of the Dalton and gave him the bottle of water I got for him. I was going to give him my bear spray since he's been running into more grizzlies than I have, but he already had a can.

He's been doing crazy mileage from my point of view. He said something like 70 to 90 miles per day. Day after day. That's nuts. I do 200 on a motorcycle and I already feel it. I can't imagine the discomfort he must be feeling on a bicycle going that distance.

This is one of those times where the trip sucks. You meet people along the way that you want to get to know better, that you want to spend more time with but the time is finite. It's here and then it's gone. That's happened a lot. I've met a crazy number of people and there have been more than one occasion where saying goodbye has not been as easy as it should have been.

He pedalled off to continue his adventure. I rode south continuing on my Long Sunday Drive.

Things were improving a bit with my state of mind, but I was still burdened. The Alcan was proving to be unnecessarily challenging. This was mostly because I couldn't bring the level to attention to the task at hand I really needed to. My mind was endlessly Elsewhere.

I happened upon a tractor trailer accident in the middle of a straight stretch where the road was actually not that bad.

A tractor trailer load of fresh silver salmon had just been spilled. People were coming from up to 100 miles away to stack up on salmon. I understand the driver had to be taken away in an ambulance.

"Good thing I'm on a safe maneuverable motorcycle instead of some dangerous semi on this road.", I thought. I saw quite a few semis nearly lose it in the rough spots. One had his trailer skid to the right onto the gravel. It created quite the spray of gravel and dust cloud.

I rode on. The temperature dropped enough that I began to consider adding another layer. The last 50 miles really hurt. I was glad to pull into Whitehorse, but of course, I had forgotten that the edge of town is 12km from it's center. I'm staying at the same hotel I stayed at the last time I was here. The attendant remembered me.

The restaurant was open until 10:30. The kitchen closes at 10. "Good. Plenty of time.", I thought as I walked in. Unfortunately, I had failed to notice that I crossed a timezone. It was now 10:15. The kitchen had closed. I ordered a glass of wine and chatted with the bartender about my trip for a moment. He had immediately remembered me and thought that maybe I had stayed the whole time in Whitehorse. "Nope. I went up to Deadhorse and back.", I replied.

He suggested I try a couple of restaurants that were only a few blocks away. Motivated because I had skipped lunch, I walked to the restaurant he suggested. It was closed but they directed me to a bar and grill that served food until midnight. I hurried the block and a half to where the place was and walked in.

The place was a bar with a pooltable. The bartender, Nicole, had a vague resemblance to Jolene Blalock who starred in that terrible Enterprise series. Beautiful woman, terrible show. When I ordered a hamburger sans bun she seemed interested and asked me about it. As it turns out, nutrition and food allergies are an interest of hers. We got to talking for a bit. Canadians. Polite. Nice. Interested. I like Canadians. I have really grown to like the Canadian soul.

But of course, as it would happen, as soon as I have an interesting conversation with an attractive bartender the place fills up. It took like 10 minutes to go from dead to being bustling.

I have two effects on bars. In the case of the Outback where Rachel and Dale work, I show up and the bar clears out, unless of course, I'm trying to have a conversation with Rachel. It's uncanny. In the case of Claudia at Piratz, when she used to work there, I would show up and the bar would fill up within minutes. The story was the same with Wendy, a bartender who saved my sorry ass at one point during the Nightmare and to whom I will forever be grateful. She would joke that she should give me a percentage of her tips. Always entrepreneurial, Wendy was something very special.

Nicole was nice. Despite being busy attending to the 15 or so people who had just walked into the bar, she took time out to chat with me. That was really nice. The bar had a good selection of scotches so I ordered a Talisker. "I haven't gotten that far yet.", she said pointing at the scotch. "I've had the Aberlour.", she mentioned. "So you want to be the woman who impresses all the men by her knowledge of scotch?", I asked. "yes, most definitely", she replied. I said if I had had more time I would have introduced her to more scotches. "Aberlour 12 is a good scotch for introducing women to scotch. It has a wine like complexity to it.", I opined. She asked what the next scotch she should try is. "Balvenie 12 Doublewood would be my suggestion pointing at the top shelf.". A good scotch, but finished in a cherry cask so it bothers me. Bummer.

I mentioned how everyone was asking me to send them messages and that one person suggested I just write a blog. "Oh really? What's the address of your blog, I'll check it out.". I told her she would be mentioned here. I enjoyed meeting Nicole. She's another one that, given more time, I would get to know better if I could.

I'm back at the hotel now. My hands are still swollen and I still feel this weight. I think it's that I'm pointed Eastward. I don't want to go home except to see a few close and special friends, none of whom I get to see or experience nearly enough. I guess that's life. I need to remember what a privilege it is to experience what I do. Even these people out here, these glimpses of lifes I get, are worthwhile, special and worth remembering. The parts of lives that people back home share with me have a value to me I cannot put into words ...

I hope I'm in a better frame of mind tomorrow, otherwise these miles are going to drag on something fierce. Hopefully tomorrow I'll find a reason to wake up ...

I tell people who I meet along the way, if they want to contact me, which I'm always happy about, I can be reached on my contact yermo page here or on facebook.

Road Report 43, 44 - Grizzlies, Sea Otters, Sea Lion and Whales

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 14:15:32 EST

"You should write a book about your travels.", the gift shop lady said. "Actually, so many friends asked me to send them emails to let them know I'm still alive that one suggested I just write a blog. That way everyone who's interested can check and see if I've croaked.", I replied. "I don't know about that internet. There's just so much bad stuff out there. You hear about it all the time. And you on that motorcycle, that's so dangerous. We had a guy killed here last year.", she said. "There's always a reason not to do a thing. You can play it perfectly safe and let the years roll on but in the end there'll be so little that you'll do.", I commented. "Yup. That's what I want. To die safely on my couch. Adventure is not for me.", she replied.

That comment surprised me.

Fear.

There is so much to be afraid of. There are so many risks. Even she agreed that she would get into a car. I've known far more people who've died or gotten seriously injured in cars than on motorcycles.

It got me to thinking again about risk.

In Fairbanks, I was talking to a guy from Buenos Aires, Argentina. I mentioned to him that I was beginning to consider the long trip down. "Don't do it! Buenos Aires and much of South America is just terrible. Terrible! If you are European, Canadian, American they kidnap you. Chop off an ear or a finger and send it to you family. Hundreds. Thousands of people kidnapped in this way! I left. Got out of there.", he said being obviously agitated by the subject.

I've heard these stories too often. Everyone knows some story of bad things that happened to someone in South America. I know people who've had to leave South America because they were being persued. But what's the real risk? Why does this risk affect me more than the risk of motorcycling?

I think it's "unknown" risk. The Dalton Highway was supposed to be this impossible road. It was a cakewalk, possibly because I was properly prepared. But "unknown" risks, the risks that we have no experience with, tend to magnify in our minds. I also know many people from South America. I know a few who live down there. I have a distant cousin, Cari, who lives in Buenos Aires. I've talked to a surprising number of riders who have done the trip down. They didn't have any problems. But yet, the risk seems unmanageable in my mind. I feel the same way about the Middle East. Maybe it's that I feel I would be a target, a target that would attract unwanted attention.

It's an irrational uneducated fear. It should be possible that mitigate and manage these risks somehow.

I ride a motorcycle over what many seem to think is difficult terrain. The downside risk is extreme. I could be mamed, paralyzed or die. Yet, I am willing to take this extreme risk. We all take the same risk every time we get in a car, but we don't think about it. It's a familiar risk. Everyone does it so we become numb to it.

There are other risks we take unconsciously.

Many people have asked me how I am able to afford the time off of work. How can I afford to do this? Aren't I afraid of not having enough for retirement? This is another form of risk I'm taking which may, eventually, have more serious consequences. It is something I worry about. The money I have spent on my bikes, my boat, and this trip add up to a non-trivial sum. I feel guilty about it. If I had responsibly saved that sum I would be much closer to having enough to live on in my later years.

That's the conventional wisdom. That's what makes sense to people. Get a good paying "secure" job. Climb the company ladder. Spend responsibly. Save. Worry about retirement.

I'm self employed, a kind of entrepreneur. I haven't had regular paycheck or something called a "job" in 17 years. I am responsible for making my own money. That's another kind of risk most people are not willing to take yet I take without even thinking twice about it. I actually view the opposite as extreme risk. By taking a job I am risking not having the upside potential of an enterprise I've built myself.

I've worked my ass off for the last 17 years. Most weeks I have put in 7 days. I've done 100 hour weeks for multiple nine month stretches. In part, as I stand now, I'm a burned out workaholic. And aside from having resolved the Nightmare, I don't really have much to show for that effort. We worked harder but many others far less experienced and technically savvy have gone on to become millionaires building huge companies.

It's funny the risks I'll take and the ones I won't. I'll gladly build a new business on a shoestring budget allowing myself to come close to bankruptcy doing it, but I won't risk involving outside parties such as venture capitalists or allow us to be bought. I fear that "unmanaged" risk. It seems to great to me.

It's just more irrational fear. A downside risk that is understood, that's been investigated and analyzed is far less of a problem than the unknown risks.

So it seems to me, what I need to realize is when I am confronted by a risk that seems unmanageable and scary, the trick is to identify the fact that's it's an unknown risk and study it. Make the unknown familiar. All risks can be mitigated to a greater or lesser degree. We all take extreme risks in some areas of our lives, such as getting into a car, but we won't take even small risks in other areas because we are irrationally afraid of them.

When I set out on this journey I thought this would be the "last big trip". As I contemplate my return trip now, I wonder what is the greatest risk I take?

Maybe the greatest risk I've taken in life is having lived a life that was not worth living.

"How many good years do you have left? Maybe 20 if that?", asked Matt in Fairbanks. "If that", I replied.

Something is going to have to change, otherwise this thing I call a life is just a waste of time.

Onto other topics ...

When perusing gift shops in Alaska, take heed. Most goods they sell are, in fact, not made in Alaska. Many are made in China, New York and other places. This is true even of the little native alaskan looking camp shacks you see along the sides of the road in the remote areas. Remember to ask.

It's time for me to get something to eat ... I will continue writing later. This connection is flakey and my "save draft" feature is not working for some reason, so I'll save this out and come back to it later ... my apologies to those who have "Watch Blog" turned on.

Two nights before, Eike and I had agreed we would meet at the restaurant at 8:30. I made sure to be a minute or two early. He was already there.

We talked for a while about his business, mine and growing companies. He's loathe to grow his business beyond what it is because he would have to deal with employees and additional taxes. I find myself also thinking I am loathe to grow a business that involves hiring people. I idealize businesses like plentyoffish.com, a one man show. Unfortunately, those are the rock-star businesses. Businesses that are more luck than skill.

I was hungry so I had a bite to eat. Low tide was to be at midnight. Eike and I wanted to get back to the salmon hatchery to see if we could spot any grizzlies. So, in typical German fashion, we decided that it would be best to arrive one and a half hours before low tide. This way we could watch the whole progression. At a little past 10 we left. Eike drove. He had a rental SUV.

It was a cloudy evening. "What business does that cloud have being that low?", I said, translated from German. Eike laughed. The clouds here in Valdez really are something worth seeing.

It had been a couple of days where everything I said was false. Regardless of what I would state, it would turn out to be false. "This is not a parking spot." False. "You are supposed to be able to walk up to the glacier.". False. "The salmon hatchery is just around the corner.". False.

If it had persisted any longer I would have developed a complex. At least I didn't say, "Grizzlies are harmless.".

We arrived at what I thought was the salmon hatchery. False. I was 200 or more meters off. It was quite a scene. Eagles were waiting patiently as were an array of fishermen.

There was this sense of anticipation in the air. It was more than a human thing. It was as if the animals around felt it too. We were all gathered for a common purpose, to witness the salmon running.

Eagles flew overhead.

As we passed, a fisherman said there were grizzlies ahead around the bend. In the SUV, we continued on all the while I said "I think this is where he meant.". False. We turned around and headed back to where the fisherman said they would be ... still no sign. "False again.", I said. Eike laughed. We creeped along and suddenly a number of cars stopped.

Grizzlies!

A momma and her three cubs were playing in the grass next to the road. Watching these majestic beasts play, you couldn't help but feel there was something familiar about it, something human. The mother bear was gentle yet playful with her cubs. A cub would jump on her back and she would, gently, fling it over onto the grass with her huge arm. There was a patience to her that was unexpected. The sense of care could be felt from a distance. They played and harrassed each other as if completely oblivious to the attention they were getting.

Every once in a while the the mother bear would peer up at the onlookers, but for the most part just paid attention to her cubs.

Eike got out his gun fearing the grizzlies might attack. From my perspective, bear spray ready in my pocket, it seemed to me that as long as we didn't bother them they wouldn't bother us.

Midnight was still a ways off but I got the sense the grizzlies knew exactly what time it was and were biding their time playing in the grass.

Watching these critter play it was so easy to forget how awesomely dangerous they can be. There was this urge to join in the fun and romp around with them. Of course, such an action would be Very Ill Advised. Well, that is as long as one didn't have a death wish.

Midnight arrived which was low tide. Unlike before the water didn't empty out to the same degree so we didn't see the massive numbers of salmon we had hoped to. Fishermen attempted to pull out what they could from the deep water.

The grizzlies, moving as if the humans were irrelevant, crossed the road.

The hatchery cleared of fishermen. Everyone waited on the road while the grizzlies made their way down river. It took quite some time.

We decided it was time to go. The tide was not low enough and the bears were gone. We had seen what we had come to see. If I had not met Eike I would not have seen any of this.

He dropped me off at my hotel. Unceremoniously, he said he might join me on the boat cruise the next day depending on the weather otherwise he would be on his way. We parted company. I went to my room and crashed.

I didn't sleep well, again. Morning came too early, again.

I went and had an omellete for breakfast. I got an Americano (watered down espresso) at one of the stands and made my way to the Lulu Belle boat for my 6 hour tour.

It was a good sized boat. I'll have to look it up how large it was but I would guess 75 feet. I talked to the captain briefly. He said he had bought the bare hull in '76 and built the boat up from that himself in a span of 10 months. Amazing. The quaility of the craftsmanship in the boat is truly impressive. I can't imagine doing that amount of work.

Then again, I can't believe my cousin Olaf built the house that he did.

It was a semi-plaining trawler type boat. We headed out into the sound. There was an oil spill recovery practice operation under way.

One thing that impressed me about this tour was that it was somewhat open ended. The tour would last between 6 and 8 hours depending on the wildlife enountered.

We saw sea otters. Cute critters.

These are supposed to be an indicator species. If they are present it is supposed to mean the environment is healthy, which is impressive given that a huge oil port is located here.

As we continued on the captain slowed the boat saying that we should look at the back of the approaching vessel.

The woman on the boat said they were 400lb "Salmon sharks". Similar to how I felt about the moose, it seemed to me the world would be a better place with these huge creatures terrorizing the seas than lying lifeless on some boat.

We also passed a huge number of sea lions. The captian did not seem to like sea lions. They stank.

At one point the captain decided to try to show his guests some puffins. These puffins were supposedly cooped up in a cave on the coast of this island. To my surprise he put the bow of the boat in the cave with only a few feet to spare on each side.

Despite the size of the boat, he did not have a bow thruster and instead relied solely on the rear two engines. Now I could probably have done the same maneuver. I am told I'm a fairly good boat pilot, but I do not believe I could do this reliably day after day. I figure I would hit the rocks one in five days I tried it, at least.

And we saw whales!

Hump back whales are as difficult to photograph as dolphins. They are just camera shy. They pop up for a frustrating second then dive under the water for tens of minutes.

And then they have the audacity to surface where ever they pleased, which was always exactly where you didn't have your camera pointed.

After spending quite a while hunting whales, we turned our attention to the glacier which was breaking apart enough to cause quite a huge number of icebergs. I kept invoking the Titanic as the sound of icebergs scraping against the hull made me uneasy.

I would be very nervous piloting through these waters. Fear again.

I asked a nice lady if she could take my photo. I'm trying to get more photos of my ugly mug for this blog. (to which I should point out that I have been chided from Ireland, I think it was, for referring to my ugly mug as my ugly mug ... she seemed to think it was Not True and was undermining my credibility ... could be. But I still refer to my ugly mug as my ugly mug because, well, I'm old and set in my ways and I look in the mirror and I see an ugly mug ... oftentimes I will complain to waitstaff at restaurants that the mirrors in the mens room is broken 'cause sumpin' unappealing keeps staring back at me blankly.)

And we got as close to the tidal glacier as we could ... which was 8 miles away.

Some years ago before this ice field formed, the boat could travel all the way to the face of the glacier. It was in the high thirties with a strong breeze here. I was uneasy about being in this ice field in a fiberglass boat. One could hear the ice scrape the hull as the boat passed too close to one iceberg or the other. I kept imagining being on my boat navigating this icefield.

The Alaska Pipeline terminates in Valdez. Tankers come in to transport the oil to poinits south. According to the boat captain, Valdez is the northernmost port that remains free during the winter, which is why this location was chosen.

It made for a nice symmetry to the trip. I saw the beginning of the pipeline at Prudhoe Bay. On a whim I rode the length of the it. And here, I saw the end of it.

The evening was uneventful. Restaurants close early here. Only a few stay open past 9PM. I talked to a couple of older guys from Wisconsin. "If it's a bear, we shoot it. We don't care.", one said at one point. They knew somebody with a boat and were here to go fishing.

I didn't sleep well again. In the morning, I noticed that I was being stalked by a vorpal.

It's been a long time since I've seen a "normal" critter. But this vorpal was black. They're not supposed to be black, are they? Evil black vorpal bunny.

This day marked the start of my trip back. I spent too many days in Fairbanks and Valdez. As a result, I'm starting to feel the pressure to return. I had said I would be back during the first week of August. It looks like this is going to slip into the second week of August, but I don't want it to get any later than that. I've been gone a long time and soon it will be time to "get back to it", unfortunately.

Phil and Geo have changed their trip a bit and are going to ride out and meet me in Thunder Bay, Ontario. So my plan is to ride straight there across Canada instead of taking the northern route through the States. It's another redirection. I hadn't considered going across Canada, but who knows what I'll find as a result?

I sat at the same restaurant, the Totem Inn, that I had gone to each morning. I spoke to the owner a bit about the differences between his business and mine. There are times when I think it would be nice to run a business that doesn't involve creativity and invention each and every day. A hotel. It's a nice simple business that everyone can understand.

It was raining and cold again in Valdez. I left town. Along the way, as usual, I felt compelled to take the obligatory beautiful mountain photo.

In the middle of nowhere I stopped at a campground/gas station and talked to the owner there. This was on the Tok highway bypass, or whatever they call it. He had moved here from upstate New York to get away from all the rude people.

And, of course, there's the obligatory panorama.

There was alot more I wanted to write, but the connectivity here is TERRIBLE. In the last little bit it's gotten a bit better so I was able to get this done, but it's not what I wanted it to be. I have to check out in 15 minutes so I've got to pack up my gear and get going.

Hopefully I'll have better connectivity in Whitehorse tonight.

Road Report Days 41, 42 - Fairbanks to Valdez, Alaska - Go to Valdez they said. It'll be nice.

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 00:10:26 EST

A friend busted my chops about the "martyr" musings in the my last post. She had been there through the latter part of the Nightmare and saw much of the worst of it. Not to the degree that Duncan did, but much of it. So she, virtually, hit me upside the head to remind me I had little choice in the matter and was not, in fact, a martyr.

There's an interesting aspect to the psychology going on in me. It makes no sense, but then again this kind of damage rarely does. You're raised in an environment where you are blamed for everything. You are the scapegoat that's used so your parents can avoid their own failings. They tell you the company is failing and the house is being foreclosed upon because you didn't do some little thing. "Your mom will be homeless and it is solely your fault.", he would say. You're 12 and you absolutely believe him and the implications terrify you. This goes well into adulthood. "Get over it, you're an adult now.", I think from time to time. But you can't change how you feel, at least not easily or quickly. Like some tall oak tree that's grown up organically on crooked ground, when you look at the world level it seems crooked. It's not the ground you're used to walking on.

At some point when things get difficult, because it's what you're familiar with and it's what you've been trained to believe, you want to believe that it's your fault. It makes so much more sense to you that somehow the bad things happened because you did something wrong. If only you could do it better the bad things wouldn't happen. As I write this I realize I sound somewhat like a abused wife. You know, that typical thing you always hear abused women say, "If only I didn't do the things that make him angry, he wouldn't do the bad things he does to me. It's my fault.".

It's the same with being sick. I keep thinking at some point that I am in fact not sick, I've just been making it all up. Then I have a beer or eat something with starch or sugar in it and the next 5 days are spoken for. It's similar with the Nightmare. The hardest thing to accept is that it wasn't my fault, that I did the best I could and was just up against impossible odds and managed to pull it all out at the end. Seeing it that way is too "level". Even six months after it all resolved by the skin of all of our collective teeth, I still can't shake the feeling that I made it worse. (And notice I didn't say "I resolved" ... ) That somehow someone else in the same circumstances could have done it better. My attornies and broker have told me otherwise, and yet I still can't shake the feeling. I feel no sense of accomplishment. I feel no sense of pride. I don't even really feel relief. I don't know what I feel, but it's not good.

So when Matt said I sounded like a Martyr at some emotional level I felt, "Aha! Now that makes sense. That explains everything. I brought it on myself ...".

No.

The night before I left Fairbanks, I went back to a local dive called the Boatel Bar for a drink. It's strictly a locals hangout and was, once again, a place filled with colorful characters. As fate would have it, or habit, Brian from the previous night was there. He had not had quite as much to drink and was more talkative. He apologized for asking me pointed questions the night before. "It was a bit long and boring. No fun. I apologize for asking.", he said. Fair enough. He got to talking and while he talked for a very long time it was never boring. An energetic, almost spastic guy with twitchy movements as if sped up by stims, he described his antics. "Little impulse control.", I remembered myself thinking. "Yea, I'm the guy, if you say jump off a bridge I'd be like 'yea!'", he exclaimed making a V sign with his hands and waving them wildly.

He describe snowmobiling across water in some detail. I had seen snowmobiles cross finite bodies of water at speed but what I did not know is if you balance them right you can just keep going. He talked about going back and forth across the open water in February. There's a powerplant up the river that dumps its hot waste water which keeps the ice melted.

Well, as it happened he was running across the water at speed when he realized the ledge he used to get back up on the ice had fallen in and it was now a 2ft tall embankment. As he told the story, waving wildly and moving around on the bar stool emulating his body position on the sled (snowmobile) like a motorcycle racer sometimes does, he described carving a short left hand turn only to have the sled point to high up losing it's bouyancy. Down it went with him on it into the drink, in Alaskan February temperatures. He went on to describe getting to near hypothermia as he swam and broke through ice to get back on shore and back into the bar. The entire story had happened right behind the bar, which as the name implies is directly on the river. Listening to him talk about spending the next five days trying to recover the sled was amusing. He said once he got it out of the water and extracted an eel from the airbox, he was able to revive it with some work and still runs it.

He works up in Prudhoe Bay on an oil rig and makes in six months nearly what I make in a year. It seems like a good gig, if you can get it. I asked him a some questions about his job and he described some facets of his daily routine but didn't seem to interested in describing it in detail. What he did mention sounded like really hard work.

He mentioned he had an aunt who lived not far from the Yukon River bridge on the Dalton highway. He talked about masks that members of his family had made, some of which are on display at the Smithsonian he said.

As I watched him waving his hands around with exaggerated facial expressions, I realized, finally, what his appearance reminded me of. A Vulcan. Same haircut. Same general facial features. He could have gotten cast on the spot, well, that is if he could calm down a bit. An amusing guy to listen to although I don't think I'd get in a vehicle with him behind the controls. "Impulse control.", I thought.

He did get serious at one point where he talked about how he helps support his mom. He's got some demons of his own. In a way he reminded me of Lance, always moving so that he doesn't have to stop and think.

He wanted to head to some other bar. "We probably won't ever meet again.", I said as we both got up to leave. "Yea, I guess not." he replied. "It was good meeting you."

I have to admit this has been an unanticipated part of this trip. I've gotten to get glimpses into quite a number of diverse lives. Out here I am less judgemental and more open. Out here I seem to be completely comfortable talking to people who, at home, I would probably not engage in conversation. There is probably a lesson in there.

I headed back to my room at the motel, all the while smelling the overpowering camp fire smell of a nearby forest fire that had been raging for some days now.

Morning came again, as it usually does, too early, but I had managed to sleep fairly well for a change. It had rained yesterday and overnight. It was much colder today, however.

I answered some emails, packed up my gear and headed to a nearby Denny's that claims to be the northernmost Denny's there is.

As I went to get gas I noticed how ominous the clouds looked. "Hmm. I'm heading to the coast today. I wonder if it's going to be like that trip to Prince Rupert with Duncan all those years ago.", I thought as I shuddered.

"I've had a pretty good run. Actually it's been a strangely long run of good weather. My luck is bound to run out.", I thought as I got back on the bike and headed out. A thermometer on a billboard read 51degF.

I headed South towards Delta Junction with the intention of reaching Valdez that evening. Valdez is only 366 miles from Fairbanks. "I should be able to make that with time to spare.", I considered naively. Within 20 miles, the drizzle started. It was an annoying kind of drizzle that wets the faceshield of the helmet just enough that you have to wipe it repeated to restore your vision. The road was already thoroughly wet. The further south I went, the further the temperature dropped.

Clouds hung eerily low over the horizon and surrounding mountains. The drizzle slowly turned into a persistent cold soaking rain. I had to stop to put the tank bag rain cover on. I couldn't take pictures with the good camera, because it was raining too hard.

Despite the rain and the darkness of the clouds I was making good time. RV's and trucks were causing their usual spray but I was getting around them handily. There were plenty of good passing sections. At one point a car flashed it's lights at me so I slowed down thinking there was an officer ahead. But none was to be seen. Then a while thereafter another car flashed it's lights at me and then another. "Shit. I bet my headlight has failed.", I thought. Sure enough, the 18 year old headlight bulb had burned out. I had a spare buried in the rear cowling under the seat under all of my gear. It was raining solidly now and puddles of water were forming in the depressions of the uneven frost heaved road. Some of these puddles were deep enough to shock you awake.

I really didn't want to replace the headlight in the rain. That would have sucked so I continued on constantly looking for a covered place to do this job. The rain got worse. As had been predicted, the water proofing I put on my boots only works for a finite period. My feet were good and soaked through by now. After 20+ years or wearing military issue combat boots I fear I may finally need to break down and get myself a waterproof riding set.

According to the thermometer it was now in the high 30's. The rain mits that I put over my gloves also have a defect. Eventually water starts running down your arm and into the mits and soaking your leather gloves. Unpleasant. The Transit Suit fits too tightly around my arms to put the suit over the gloves and mits. "Thank you Duncan once again for the heated handle bar grips.", I said aloud as I switched them on high. My hands may have been wet but they were not freezing.

The Transit Suit, as advertised, was completely water proof IF you remember to close the pockets. As I have mentioned before and I am sure you believe me, I am a genious. I left all the suit pockets unzipped. Yea, Genius I tell you.

The rain mits have a nice squeegy thing on them which makes clearly the faceshield of water mist and rain a breeze. Unfortunately, this was the kind of rain where you found yourself doing that constantly, at least every 30 seconds just so you could see.

The clouds got darker and darker. Everything was wet on the outside. I was starting to get concerned about visibility. Without my headlight oncoming traffic can't see me. It seemed like ages before I finally came upon a gas station at a lodge.

It was really coming down now and to add insult to injury it was coming down at an angle.

I walked in to the office to pay for gas and asked if I could stay under the gas pump cover, which was at least partially out of the rain so I could replace the headlight bulb. "I can do better than that. Around back there's a large generator shed. It's covered and because the generator is running it's warm.", the attendant said.

This turned out to be a lifesaver.

Despite the electric vest and the heated handle grips I was pretty good and cold. Soaked frozen feet were making it uncomfortable to walk. The "shed" was more like a huge barn with a concrete floor. The generator which occupied a quarter of the space provided all the power for the lodge. It was warm, albeit poorly lit.

I remember seeing a couple of guys, one with a passenger, on a couple of mid-70's vintage 400cc bikes. I think they may have been Kawasaki's or Hondas. I couldn't tell. They had milk cartons bungied to the 70's style sissy bars. They didn't have any good gear and looked like hippies. "That's how you do it.", I had thought at the time. "Slowly, on a shoe string budget going from campground to campground. Not high dollar, on some German machine with all this gear and electronics.", I thought as I pondered how unfortunate I was that I was so fortunate and could afford to travel the way I do.

"Today, I am grateful I am fortunate. I love my heated vest, my heated handlebar grips and this expensive water proof Transit Suit.", I thought as I slowly started taking gear off. "If I were those guys, I'd be hating life much more than I am right now. I am just uncomfortable. In this weather they would be miserable.". It was pouring down rain outside, but the heat from the generator felt good.

It had been 18 years since I changed the lightbulb in my bike. The spare is also that old. I'll have to remember to get another spare as soon as I can. Getting stranded without a headlight on a bike is a Bad Thing. I checked the owners manual to review how to remove the thing. As is the case with most things, getting this !#$!@# headlight bulb out involved some contortionism, patience and pain.

It took me over 45 minutes to get the old one out and the new one installed. But I was strangely calm about it. It took the time that it took. I didn't rush it. I had no schedule. "I'll roll into Valdez around 10PM", I thought. "That might be a problem.". But I was committed now. Unhurried, I checked tire pressure which I hadn't done in a while. I added some air to the front and rear using this cool Aerostich mini-compressor I got and packed up my gear. "Yea, I'm fortunate to be fortunate.", I thought.

I thanks the attendant for the use of the shed and then headed back out into the pouring rain and was on my way. I just rode. There were things I would have taken photos of, but it was raining too hard. Then I remember the backup indestructible camera that takes lousy photos. I pulled it out and put it into my pocket.

Duh. "Remember to zip up the pockets. Nobody reminded me to do that. They're always telling me not to die or get eaten by grizzly bears but ...", I laughed.

I was good and cold, but it was not unbearable. I have certainly been much colder. "This is going to be one of those standard comments after a while. Maybe it'll become standard comment #1. 'Thank you Duncan for the grips'", I kept thinking over and over again. There are few things in life that feel as good as release from discomfort. Hands cold. Press button. Hands warm now. Ahhhh.

As was the case in 1992, when, for 500 miles in the rain, Duncan would persistently say with that annoying optimism he musters simply to bug me, "Look! There's a break in the clouds. I'm sure the rain will stop any minute now!". It's didn't. Prince Rupert is some kind of Northern Rain Forest. It rains all the time.

So when I saw in the distance ...

... I thought, "Ah, mother Nature, I'm on to you. You teased me before but I'm just not buying it this time!". On I rode undeterred by the sunshine peering through the clouds. "Sucker hole", I thought.

Now having the indestructible camera soaking in my wet pocket, I was free to take pictures.

I pondered , "How can you tell you're in Alaska?".

Yup. If you have to be reminded not to shoot from the roadway, you're in Alaska.

Mother Nature continued to try to tease me, but I coldly ignored her advances, knowing that she was just trying to make me hopeful so she could crush me again. Abuses relationships are like that, after all. You just have to learn to stop hoping and realize She's Evil.

At one point she actually made it stop raining for a while, maybe 45 minutes. I thought to myself this can't be true. The clouds were hanging very low overhead. I don't remember ever seeing clouds like this before.

These clouds were crazy low. The rain stopped and started. It would turn to drizzle for a while. Then, as I started to climb what I thought was a pass, I saw some very ominous looking clouds. These clouds were a dark blue and situated between two mountain peaks.

I started running into a mist as if I was riding through a cloud. It was an annoying mist requiring me to constantly clear the faceshield. It had gotten colder still and the shield was fogging up quickly on the inside.

The clouds continued to amaze.

There was this one cloud hanging down low in front of a mountain seemingly just a few hundred feet above the road.

It started to rain again just I had started becoming hopeful. Then I saw it.

A glacier!

I hoped to see the glacier I've been told you can walk on. I've never seen a glacier up close before. The rain continued as I climbed the mountain. Temperatures had risen for a while but were no dropping well into the mid thirties.

Then I ran into fog, only it wasn't fog, it was a cloud.

I've ridden in fog before but this was ridiculous. It was wet. Very wet. So wet in fact that I couldn't keep the faceshield clear. I suffered constant visibility problems and could only do about 15 mph. It got much thicker than what's depicted in the photo. This was taken right at the beginning.

It went on for miles. I rode with the fourway blinkers on. It got so thick that while riding next to the yellow line in the middle I could not see the white line on the side. I was afraid some idiot would come through too fast and run me over I was travelling so slowly.

But I couldn't go any faster safely. To make matters worse, the road surface was very slick.

This seemingly went on for miles and miles.

On the other side of the pass I descended and ended up in a very cool steep and narrow canyon filled with low handing clouds and waterfalls.

Of course, it was still raining but no longer quite as hard. It was still cold.

I finally made it into Valdez just before 10PM. To my dismay seemingly every hotel was booked solid. I was thoroughly chilled and not looking forward to attempting to camp or riding back three hours to next nearest town. I went to three separate hotels until I found a motel with a room available.

The amount of money I've spent on hotels, eating out and gear is starting to make me sick. Maybe we'll call this the Worlds Most Expensive Sunday Drive. Things in Canada and Alaska are just crazy expensive.

There was a restaurant in walking distance that was still open. Leaving all my gear on the bike, I walked over because I was starving. It was a weird place. As Duncan would say, "There's only bad music on the water.". This was true of this place as well. The bartender, who really couldn't be bothered to tend bar, was playing with her iphone that she had plugged into the stereo.

Eventually I managed to get a drink and dinner. Eventually a guy sat down next to me just before the kitchen closed and ordered dinner. I thought I recognized the accent but I wasn't entirely sure. I asked him where he was from. "Germany", he replied. "Wo aus Deutschland?", I asked (Where in Germany?). He was from Berlin. They have a slightly different accent there which is why I didn't recognize it. His name is Eike. He had been kayaking on the Yukon river for some long time by himself. Hard Core. We talked for a good long while. I mentioned the boat tours, but the forecast for the next day was supposed to resemble what I had just experienced. We agreed to meet at 11AM in front of the restaurant and would decide what to do then.

It's simply crazy how many people I'm meeting. Maybe it's because most of the people I'm meeting are themselves travelling and are thus in that same open state of mind. I don't know.

I went back to the my room and promptly took a long hot shower and went to bed.

I didn't sleep well. Morning rolled around and I was awake shortly before 8. The hotel made a big deal out of breakfast. They have a full breakfast room with a complete kitchen so I had hopes for breakfast. Cold cereal and muffins is all they had. Great. I walked around town in search of a place to get something to eat.

Along the way I thought, how can you tell if you're in Alaska?

If the bars open at 8AM, you're in Alaska.

It was still dark from thick clouds which still hung eerily slow over the landscape.

The water in the marina here at Valdez has this unnatural aquamarine color.

I had breakfast at another inn and a couple cups of coffee. I was once again a a stupid tired walking corpse. Despite that, I kept a careful watch on the time since we had said 11AM.

Now if he had been an American, I would have questioned whether or not he would even have shown up. Even then, one would have considered a window of maybe half an hour early or late to be "normal".

But this was a German and that means two things. He'll be there because, he said he would be there and he'll be on time.

So I quickly walked over to a coffee stand, got my fifth cup of coffee for that morning, and headed over to the agreed upon spot. I was 2 minutes early and he was no where to be seen. At exactly 30 seconds before the hour, he walked up coffee cup in hand.

I have some difficult understanding him. He uses a lot of vocabulary and slang I'm not used to but I can follow along. I haven't been speaking enough German lately so I was looking forward to a day in the language. The weather was still off. Clouds and fog were everywhere. We decided that a boat tour wouldn't be worth it so we opted to walk around town. He had wanted to check out some kayaking and sports stores looking for a hand held radio or Personal Locator Beacon. We walked around town chatting. At one point we came upon an interesting tracked vehicle.

For when the snow if Really Deep.

We walked over to the tourist center because I wanted to get some information on the boat tours. The lady there started showing us photos she had taken nearby. "The salmon are running. It's low tied. There will probably be bears and eagles as well. If you hurry you might still be able to make it.", she said.

Eike had a rental car so we raced, jumped into it and headed to the place the lady had mentioned. It took much longer to get there than one would have guessed looking at the tourist map.

When we arrived the tide was already coming back in, but we could see quite a number of birds and alot of fishermen. "This must be the place.", Eike said. We got out of the car, cameras in hand and climbed down the rock embankment. Watching the water carefully you could occasionally see the splashing of salmon as they ran through shallow parts.

It's the splashing of a salmon. It was the best I could do.

In the distance I spotted an eagle. There had been a number of them while we were in the car, but most had flown off.

One could get a sense of how much the tidal difference in this area is. Most of the ground we were standing on, many feet above the water line, was still wet and covered in what I guess was kelp.

Fishermen lined this one little section of stream through which, apparently, a crazy number of salmon were swimming.

They didn't even bait the hooks. The salmon that were being pulled out weren't even hook on their mouths. Maybe were hooked on the side.

They would simply cast the line out, drag the hook across the stream and pull out salmon after salmon. One guy were saw, in particular, bothered both of us. He pulled out salmon after salmon and as he pulled the fish off the hook, he threw it on the ground and just stepped on it.

Both Eike and I were appalled at the simple disregard. "No respect. No decency.", he said. He went on to talk about the hunting license you get in Germany and how, when you learn to hunt in Germany, a certain amount of culture and respect is included. If you don't demonstrate an understanding of the hunters code, you don't get your license.

I mentioned the show I had seen where the moose was assassinated and his comments mirrored the ones I made in the blog at the time. Maybe it's just a German thing. There's a different set of values, a different way of looking at the world. There are right ways and wrong ways of doing things.

Hooking some fish and smashing it on a rock just isn't right. "You have to use a knife and make it quick.", Eike said. Most fish lying on the beach after having been stomped on were still moving.

This scene is going to stick with me for a while. It disgusted both of us so we left. The next low tide is as midnight. We've been told to be careful as we're planning on heading back out there to see if we can see any grizzlies. Yes, yes, I'll be careful.

We talked about the bears and were warned by one of the fishermen that they tended to lurk just on the other side of the road. Eike had a rather sizeable rifle with him which he pulled out and put together.

Germans with guns.

He said in principle he has no problems with hunting but couldn't see himself going out and killing some beast. We discussed the relative merits of bear spray versus guns. I've been told most of the time a gun will just piss a bear off and that the bear spray tends to be more effective. Eike's point was that the reason the taser was invented is that people can learn to withstand pepper spray. He had heard if a bear has been sprayed in the past it's less likely to be stopped the second time around.

After leaving the salmon hatchery, we headed over to Valdez Glacier. I had heard from someone that you can walk right up to it. It took us a while to get there, but at least it was on the way back. It turned out I had been misinformed.

There really wasn't much of the glacier to see. It looked to me like it had receded quite a bit. There was a good sized pond and the glacier itself was far too long a walk for us to attempt it. We were both hungry at this point.

As we were getting ready to leave I saw a critter I have only seen once before.

Yermo the nature photographer. I'm guessing this is some kind of porcupine. We stalked the slow moving waddling beast but it was on to us and moved off into a weird grove of trees where it refused to pose for the camera.

All these trees were leaning to the right as if pushed by some force.

As we opened the door of the car to leave the glacier the mosquitoes swarmed. A dozen or so got into the car with us. Very annoying.

Eike suggested that we buy lunch at the grocery store and have lunch at the campsite where he was staying. It was an awful RV park with RV's of every shape and size visible as far as the eye could see.

"It'd be a great view without all the RV's.", I said. He complained about RV's that left their generators on after 11PM preventing him from getting a good nights sleep. "There are rules against that.", he said perplexed. It's a German thing. Rules are to be followed. For Americans, rules are more like guidelines. If it says 55mph, they usually don't ticket you unless you're doing over 75mph.

As we sat in the campground, this crazy bird walked up and stood staring at me from maybe less than 6 feet away.

It just stood there staring at me. Eike threw it some chicken, but the bird flew away. "I guess he didn't get it.", Eike said.

He had wanted to go to the Valdez museum. I decided rather than do that, since I was so tired, I would go back to my motel room and see about doing some laundry. Maybe I could sleep.

On the way to the motel, I stopped at the Lulubelle Boat office to see when the boat left the next day. It turns out they only run it once a day starting at 1PM. The nice lady is holding a spot for me. If the weather holds, I think I'll do it tomorrow. They say you can see whales on most days. Unfortunately, the tour lasts until 7 or 8PM depending on the wildlife they see. This means I'll be here another day. I think I'll try camping. The hotel costs are starting to hurt.

As I looked around the Lulubelle Office I saw it. The perfect dream catcher. "That's it!", I thought. I had had a vision of what I wanted to get and that matched it almost exactly. It was not for sale. Thwarted again.

I checked a few shops on the way back to the motel but found nothing. I took a short nap, did some laundry and checked email. Originally, I was thinking I was far too tired to write this post. "I won't have enough time.", I had thought.

But then I got this friend request on facebook by a guy from Dubai who was googling about trips to Alaska. He started reading the blog and send me a message about it. It turns out he likes the blog and wants me to continue writing it.

So with a little encouragement from a random stranger I mustered the gumption to put together this entry ...

I wonder, once I get back to my life, will I have anything to say that people will want to read?

And if I don't stop now I'll be late ... so I leave it as it is with all my usually typos and mis-edited sentences. My apologies to the readers. I wonder if we'll see any bear tonight.

Road Report Day 37 - Deadhorse, Alaska to Camp Coldfoot - Some Disassembly Required

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 18:48:03 EST

I'm not feeling well today. I had trouble sleeping again last and woke up feeling very off and unmotivated. I had another episode of my guts letting loose yesterday. To top things off, while I didn't notice the smoke myself, the forest fire on the horizon has apparently been sending some smoke this way. I had noticed I was starting to get tired yesterday, a common allergic symptom for me, and today I was already completely wiped out.

So I've decided to stay at the hotel here in Fairbanks another day and see if I feel any better. I hope to catch up on all my writing and then get under way to Valdez tomorrow. I've been told it's the Switzerland of Alaska. There are boat tours that go out to a glacier which I would like to do.

I've been invited to join a ride in early August up to Nova Scotia with Phil who I met in Deal's Gap. I am sorely tempted to go, but I am feeling the pressure to make it back when I said I would, namely in early August. I have dear friends who miss me, problems that my mom needs help with and I need to get back to the business.

My business partner, Anatoly, has been extremely understanding and patient with me as I mess around out here trying to get my head screwed on straight. He's been extremely patient through the six years of the hardcore Nightmare that kept taking so much of my time. There wasn't much of me left to help. I am behind on so many internal projects, some of them by an embarrasing number of years. Can you say the new ecommerce system?

You can't imagine a better partner. But things with our little huge multinational corporation of two people are not going well. I was hoping to get some brilliant insights into what we need to do to turn things around, but so far I've just come up with simple ideas that may or may not help. It's not a good time to be trying to sell stock market investment software for the Windows PC. Websites and brokerages have gotten so good of late that our bread and butter target demographic, beginning and intermediate investors, no longer have a compelling need to buy our software. Most who do use it rip it off. Add to that the ascendance of the Mac along with a whole spectrum of varied hand held devices from the iPhone to the Android, and we have a near perfect storm of forces making our lives difficult. The investors we do reach these days tend to be more advanced portfolio management types, but we don't reach enough of them. In addition, we are competing against mega million dollar companies for their attention.

Despite the fact that our products are very highly regarded, investors who use it love us and that we've gotten all kinds of positive press and reviews, the bottom has dropped out of our business and we need to find a new and creative way to reposition what we do to survive.

I confess I feel very guilty about how badly things are going. I haven't been able to find any new relationships that are producing; just a series of small attempts that have brought exactly zero. Anatoly could easily make bank anywhere. A couple of phone calls and he'd be involved in the next big project making six figures along with equity, easily. He's the best applications software developer/engineer I've ever met. What he is able to accomplish with the level of professionalism and engineering discipline he brings to his work is simply unparalleled.

It's strange. The blog has helped me see what I do, motorcycling and this trip, through other peoples eyes. It helps me point out things I would never have thought to mention; things I would never have thought were interesting. This may turn out to be the one of the most important lessons from the trip.

We have an excellent product. It rivals Quicken in it's polish and professionalism and completeness. As a matter of fact, being out here and talking to so many people has made me realize, the best way to describe what Anatoly has built is probably "Personal Stock Monitor is for investors what Quicken is for personal finance.".

For our business, I need to see through other people eyes. I need to get out and talk to people. I need to listen. I need to write. I need to give people a personal insight into what we do. I need to show them that we are much more than just a couple of guys with a little product. We've tried before but everything we've written has been too technical, too matter of fact, too dry. There's an interesting story to tell about what we've done, who we are, if only we can get the courage to tell it.

I think this trip and the blog I am compelled to write is helping me see that. Maybe I can learn how to do this for the business. Maybe I can find a marketing partner or even a buyer.

I simply write about what I think about. I've been loathe to write about the business and about some other topics. Too personal. Too revealing. Too many reasons not to. But I spend alot of time thinking about the business.

I also spend alot of time thinking about the Nightmare, wondering how much I should reveal. I feel compelled to. I want to, but I fear to as well. There are illusions about my family that would be shattered if they knew. There are so many reasons not to.

So for the moment, sitting here feeling rather ill in my hotel room, I'll continue on with my motorcycling story. Sorry for rambling off topic.

I had arrived in Deadhorse in the early evening, which up there is indistinguishable from mid day. The ride up had taken a little over six and a half hours. This was mostly due to me stopping to take so many photos.

When I arrived it was really cold. The tour guide would say later on that it had reached 25defF but I don't think it was quite that cold. Maybe 32. Having not slept the night before and having done 240 miles of mixed dirt, gravel and paved road requiring constant concentration I had no energy to go out and walk around. So I stayed in my little military style room in the Arctic Caribou Inn and wrote. I should have gone to bed after I finished but I ended up chatting with a few friends on Facebook until after midnight. This would have consequences later.

It was still light out when I went to bed. I bet I could have seen the sun if it weren't for the thick layer of clouds.

Midnight.

The Prudhoe Bay oil field operation is simply massive. It resembles a massive construction site. There are temporary buildings raised up off the ground to house workers. There are oil rigs in various states of readiness waiting to be deployed, others in operation. There are vast rows of construction equipment. Backhoes, graders, and other strange vehicles whose purpose I do not know.

It feels like a temporary camp. The temporal nature of this operation is evident everywhere. Moving through this place you can just feel how, once the oil and gas runs out, it'll all be abandoned. In fact, it was supposed to have been abandoned 10 years ago as the original estimate for the field was that it could only be operated for 20 years. It's now past 30.

I was told this operation supplies something between 20% and 30% of the oil in the US. It is in decline however. It used to produce 2,000,000 barrels a day but now produces less than 1,000,000, if I remember correctly. I'll have to look up and verify that I have my stats correct.

I had to get up early. Wicked early. At 6AM, which rolled around much too soon, I was up. By 6:30 I was at breakfast. I had a few cups of coffee after breakfast and went to the tour assembly room.

To go on a guided tour of the Prudhoe Bay operation you have to call 24 hours in advance. Each hotel can hook you up with a tour, but you have to provide them with your identity information, either a passport number or drivers license number. They do a simple background check on you before letting you enter the field.

The German tourists I had met in Coldfoot camp were there and sat down next to me. I continued to enjoy seeing the same faces as I travelled.

We were shown a short 17 minute movie about the history and operation of the oil field. In the movie, through the apparent rules and during the subsequent tour, they really attempt to do a good PR job about how they limit the environmental impact of their operations. While much of it is clearly a PR effort, some of it is very real. For instance, what I did not understand was how they set up the wells. As drilling techniques have improved they are able to place the well heads closer and closer together thereby allowing them to create a smaller gravel pad on which to place said well heads. From there they drill out in all directions for miles.

(I'll have to remember to ask Robyn from Prince George, BC about the realities of the environmental impact when I meet her for coffee on the return trip.)

After the movie we were herded out of the room and onto a bus. Each person had to show ID before being allowed on the bus. It had been raining for some time.

I should have taken notes or maybe they should have produced a flyer with relevant facts to hand out on the tour because I've forgotten too many of the details of what was discussed. The tour consisted of a several mile long drive around the center of the operation.

Oil rigs could be seen everywhere.

It's a muddy dirty place. As I mentioned, it feels like a massive construction site.

To the left an oil rig. To the right one of the "hotels".

Construction materials are stacked everywhere.

It doesn't feel or look like a "town". Imagine a flat space of dirt several square miles wide. Roll a trailer in here. Put a huge piece of equipment over there. Set up a tent in some other place. Pile up a bunch of wood and supplies in some other place. Now start driving around between the various places where you've put stuff. Eventually you decide to put down some gravel so the mud doesn't get too deep, and after a while you start thinking of it as a "town", but really it's just piles of equipment and temporary housing haphazardly dropped where ever it ended up when you first delivered it. At least, this is what it feels like.

Another thing that can be seen are seemingly endless arrays of pipes running from the various rigs, some miles and miles away, to the separation plants. I forget what the correct term is, but when crude is pumped out of the ground it contains impurities such as water, natural gas, bacteria, and sand. This has to be separated out before the crude oil can be sent down the Alaska pipeline.

Some of the stranger vehicles we were shown were these low impact crawlers designed to ride out on the permafrost and tundra without sinking in, and thus without impacting the ground too much. The tour guide told a story about how the pressure these exert on the ground as they roll is so low they could roll over a human being lying on the ground without injuring the person. The tall tale is that this is how these machines were originally demonstrated to the oil field operators. The tires are never inflated. They roll as the are seen here.

It is my understanding that the structures here are all built up off the ground to protect the permafrost. If too much heat escapes below a structure the ground can melt causing it to become unstable. Here's is yet another improvisational looking motel.

There are very interesting contrasts on this trip. I spent time with people at Dancing Rabbit whose very mission in life is to have the smallest environmental impacts possible. I now stand in the midst of what I believe is probably the single largest environmental impacts in existence, the oil and gas industry. "A necessary evil.", Robyn said and I agree with her. Without this industry, at this time, it is unlikely that even Dancing Rabbit could exist. They may not see it that way, but I think I could make a pretty compelling case for it.

Our modern lives are so dependent upon this industry that we are, to a large degree, held hostage by it. The very reason that I, a single middle class guy, have the economic muscle to, by myself, mount a machine and travel on it across many thousands of miles all the while staying in contact with everyone, being able to write this blog, is because of this industry. I imagine much of the gasoline, that magic substance that makes my bike Go, came from oil pumped out of the ground here.

As we toured the facilities, one thing that became very apparent to me are the tremendous risks involved in an operation like this. They deal with simply huge quantities of the highest energy transportation fuels we know of. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of miles of pipe. Seemingly millions of pieces of interconnected equipment.

On the one hand we know what can happen when things go terribly wrong. There is always the business desire to reduce costs to increase profits. Infrastructure upgrades are always painful and with publically traded companies, such upgrades reduce quarterly earnings and thus affect stock prices. Often times, with lax regulation, safety protocols are ignored and Bad Things Happen as we are seeing in the gulf.

This is apparently similar to the device that failed in the Gulf.

But I imagined being an engineer, or a safety guy or an operations guy, who was responsible for designing this place. Imagine the magnitude of that task. Imagine coming up with the information systems, the mechanical systems and the human systems policies and procedures to make an operation like this run.

From what I see here, it's amazing this place runs. It's seems like such a hazardous line of work. Tens of thousands of individuals. Millions of pieces of equipment. And it all works, more of less, most of the time.

Everywhere around you can see small buildings dotting the horizon which cover the well heads themselves. Safety valves such as the one above are contained in each small building.

The tourguide, a native Alaskan who has done a tremendous amount of hunting, had this uncanny ability to see wildlife all around the operation I would never have noticed. I would strain to see the critters he was pointing out to the left and right. It's an excellent PR move on their part to have someone so versed in wildlife conducting the tour.

When a given critter crosses the road traffic stops. I watched as other vehicles also stopped, not just tour busses.

I was impressed by the number of critters seemingly living out their lives in the fields between the rigs unbothered by the presence of all this construction equipment. The tour guide pointed out a number of red foxes.

One of the scarier aspects of this operation is "natural gas injection". In the case of the Prudhoe Bay oil field, the oil isn't actually pumped out of the ground. It hadn't dawned on me but one doesn't see of the Texas style pumps out here anywhere.

What they do is take a portion of the natural gas that's separated from the oil and the reinject it into the ground pressurizing the entire field which forces more oil out of the pores of the rock.

The pressure use to reinject the gas into the ground is astronomical. Apparently a single uncontrolled spark at the injection site could cause the entire site and surrounding buildings to explode. The blast radius would be miles wide. If memory serves, there are several such injection sites at Prudhoe Bay. If any one of them were to go, the entire operation could be shut down for years.

The furthest point of the tour was on Prudhoe Bay, which is part of the Arctic Ocean. We were allowed out for the obligatory "walk around and dip toe into water" part.

The tour guide and I talked for a while about the operation. He was kind enough to shoot this photo of me.

There are a few islands in the distance across the water on which are oil well heads.

So I opted for the "boots in the arctic ocean" shot. I wasn't about to take my boots off out in this cold.The waterproofing goo I applied to my boots seems to work.

I talked to the German tourists a bit. They offered to snap a photo of me too.

We returned to the bus and having dallied at the water too long attempted to get back to the hotel quickly. Our progress was thwarted by caribou in the road. Traffic on both sides came to a halt. The tour guide explained that across the Prudhoe Bay operation wildlife has the right of way.

While we were at the water he had explained that grizzly and polar bears can be quite a problem. The grizzlies hibernate in the sand dunes in the field. Polar bears come back on land at some point. Taking photos of polar bears in forbidden. This is apparently due to it changing the behavior of the polar bear. They do hunt humans after all. Anyone caught taking a photo of a polar bear will be fined. For workers there, the tour guide said they could lose their contract. If a polar bear starts changing it's behavior and pursues humans it has to be destroyed.

We passed the Alaskan Clean Seas operation. These guys are experts in oil spill cleanup. I noticed the OSHA VPP Star certification and thought of my buddy Bruce, whose family I joined camping in Ouray, Colorado. Bruce is a safety specialist so I've heard alot of stories of what's involved in that line of work. Looking around the Prudhoe Bay operation I think Bruce would have a field day here. He has this incredible insight into how truly large operations are organized, both from a physical perspective and a human management policies and procedures one. I used to rent a room from him ages ago in College Park, before I bought my house. I learned alot about business from listening to him. I don't think he actually realizes how much I learned from him then and continue to learn from him now.

Signs of construction and construction equipment everywhere.

We got back from the tour. I was pretty tired at this point, not having slept the night before and having only gotten about 5 hours of sleep. I thought about taking a nap but I was told I had to vacate my room immediately.

So I got my stuff packed on the bike and had a couple huge cups of coffee. The KLR riders had reported massive mosquitoes. The tour guide had said the day before I arrived was the worst he had ever seen the mosquitoes in all the years he had been up there.

I walked out to my bike to leave when the sun came out and the wind died down. Within seconds of this, literally seconds, the mosquitoes were everywhere. One landed next to my keys.

Sorry it's blurry. THe mosquito is the huge thing in the upper right of the photo. It's was about half as long as the key. The wind would come and they would disappear for a few moments. Then they would be back with a vengeance. I put my helment and gloves on. The evil blood suckers attacked my transit suit. The bug spray I bought at Camp Coldfoot was working like a champ.

Then I noticed the first kamikazee of the day. This one seemed to be enjoying life for the moment.

During the tour the guide spent a great deal of time talking about cold weather conditions. All the roads around the operation had tall reflectors set up on the shoulders spaced evenly apart. Blizzards are a common occurance on the North Slope, what the larger area around Prudhoe Bay is called. Blizzards are measured in "Phases". Each phase is measured by the number of reflectors one can see from the cab of a truck. I forget, but Phase I is something like 4 reflectors. By phase III all traffic is forbidden except specialized emergency equipment.

Making sure engines can start in the extreme cold, which can reach -50degF or colder is a constant task. There are banks of extension cord racks in each parking lot. All the vehicles up here are equiped with block heaters, which you can tell from what look like extension cords hanging out of the front grills on these vehicles. Once it gets too cold engine oil gels and prevents engines from being started. A block heater keeps the engine oil warm enough to allow the engine to start in even the coldest conditions.

I wanted to find something I could attach to my bike to attest to the fact that I was up here. Ever since the very understated Deals' Gap Dragon sticker I put on my bike I've been looking for understated ways of marking my bike. Most guys just plaster their saddle bags with huge stickers. I hate the way that looks, so I wanted to find something small and understated.

For Pikes Peak and Yellowstone I picked up metal pins, like you would put on a shirt. I'll just file down the pin part and epoxy it on the bike. They are really small, like 1/2" wide, so only someone who looks really closely will notice them.

I headed over to the one "General Store", which had kind of a hard core construction and trucking feel to it. Upstairs they had some stuff to cater to the tourist crowd, of which I was firmly a member at this point. Outside the general store I snapped this photo. It's just another rig.

I looked around a bit. They had some native Alaskan art. I had wanted to bring some things back and had asked a friend what I could bring back for her. She mentioned liking "Dream Catchers", so I looked around the shop. They had some but none that I liked or would feel good about giving. "Too commercial.", I thought.

I did pick up a post card for a friend who asked me to send her one. Then I found a pin that would work. I paid for my items and headed back outside into the mosquito infested outdoors and headed out of town to points South. As I left I saw rain on the horizon.

Maybe I would experience how "truly 'orrible" the Dalton Highway can be. I was pretty seriously tired but awake enough to ride. As I headed out of town, I ran through swarms of mosquitoes. These things are so large you can actually feel them as they impact the helmet. You can hear them as well. Huge blood suckers. Even the caribou try to avoid them.

The road turned away from the looming rain storms on the horizon. I thought maybe my incredible luck streak would continue until ...

I've heard from people who live up here that the Dalton can become a real mess if it rains for too long. I guess I was going to find out.

It rained pretty hard for a while. It was long enough for the road surface to become good and wet. To top that off, for quite a stretch they found it necessary to wet the road even more using the water trucks. In addition, I found myself in a section where they were putting down new surface material, calcium chloride. There was a good wind from the right, for which I was grateful, since trucks coming from the opposite direction would throw up quite a spray of muck.

But even this road surface wasn't too bad. Yes, it was slippery. Yes, it was muddy. Muck got all over everything. But in the end, it really wasn't too bad. I was able to easily do 40mph on this stuff, slip sliding away.

In the intervals where it didn't rain they seemed to think it was necessary to water the road down some more. I had moved to the extreme right as I was sure I was about to get sprayed but this trucker turned off the water right before he passed. In contrast to what I had expected, truckers were very courteous on the road. They would move over if it was dusty. They would turn the water off as they passed. They would wave.

I was stopped at one of those pilot car required construction sites. I got to talking to the stop/slow guy for some time. It was a 20 minute wait until the pilot car came. He asked about the bike and told me stories of locals. There was some guy who had gotten very familiar with some black and brown bears in the area. He had semi-tamed them and would fly out to his shack somewhere out on the tundra. Eventually, wildlife and game or some other agency got wind of this. They fined him and took away his pilots license. Feeding bears is illegal because it makes them associate human activity with food which can be very dangerous. The construction guy seemed to think the guy knew what he was doing and should not have been fined like that.
Then he mentioned the naturalist who was eaten by grizzlies not too long ago, it was a famous case. And a woman who was attacked and killed by wolves who had been fed by humans.

There's alot of anecdotal evidence to say feeding wildlife is a Bad Thing.

The mosquitoes here were just harsh. It's strange. If you're moving they seem to disappear quickly but once you stop they swarm. It's as if they lie in wait for hours until some critter approaches then they pounce. I had to keep my visor down they were so thick. Some would get up in the visor and start buzzing around the helmet in terror. I had the bug spray on. Disgusting stuff but the mosquitoes seemed to hate it more than I did.

The pilot truck arrived and I was able to get underway. Within seconds I no longer heard the smack of terminating bloodsuckers. The road was good and wet and slippery for a while. Muck continued to accumulate on the bike. I was extremely tired and as I had shot photos of this area before I just rode on. Every now and again I would stop to take a picture.

This is not too far from Atigen Pass. As I approach the pass I noticed these low clouds that blanketed the tops of the mountains. I wondered what it would be like through the pass.

As had been the case for hours, the rain wasn't bad. It was just an on again off again drizzle that was just enough to wet the road surface in places. Most of the time the road was only damp.

As I approach Atigen Pass I noticed fog reaching to the ground.

"This could get interesting.", I thought as I wondered if I would run into anything difficult on this road. By now riding on this surface seemed entirely normal and I was able to do it without too much thinking. I was making really good time. At this rate I would be at Camp Coldfoot ini under 5.5 hours. I was really tired by this point, however.

I made my way to the area which had fog in it and just as I arrived and headed up the pass a breeze started and the fog was pushed out. The sun poked through and it got noticably warmer. I was making my way up the North side of the pass when I stopped in a pulloff to take a picture. I went to reposition the bike for a better view and let out the clutch lever out to go.

As had happened before, Nothing Happened.

I also knew, immediately, that this was not due to a piece of gravel stuck under the lower clutch lever arm.

"This could get really interesting.", I said aloud as I pondered being stuck here for an extended period. It was sunny here and warm with a strong breeze. Trucks passed by every now and again.

I stood there for a while taking in the moment. I took off my helmet and gloves and pulled out my earplugs. I surveyed the bike. It was covered in calcium chloride. It had caked on pretty thick, just like you would imagine cement does if you lob it at your bike for hours.

"Yea, I bet I know what happened.", I thought. I peered back to the lower clutch lever and sure enough, calcium chloride muck had accumulated under the arm and hardened layer after layer eventually preventing the clutch lever from dropping all the way. Hence the reason the motorcycle Would Not Go.

At this point, I was grateful for the gravel incident before. If it had not been for that, I don't know that I would have recognized that the lever was not all the way down.

I know this photo is a bit confusing. It was the best I could do. The band on the right is actually the rear tire. The camera is over the exhaust pipe, which is covered in calcium chloride and is lit by sunlight in the lower left of the photo. Directly in the lower middle of the photo is a muck covered catalytic converter. It's made of shiny stainless steel. As you can see, everything looks like it's covered in cement.

Above the catalytic coverter, in pretty much the exact center of the photo is a bar extending from right to left. That's the lower clutch lever arm. If you look, there's a little bit of space between the catalytic converter and the arm.

There should be alot of space there. You should be able to see clearly through to the engine. I hope that gives some indication to just how caked up this is.

So I got out my trusty victorinox and patiently attempted to contort my hand and arm in such a way to allow me to chip away at this stuff. This stuff is HARD. It's not quite as hard as cement, but almost. You chip at it with a blade and all that happens is a bit of dust comes off. You drill with the knife to cut a little hole into it and sometimes larger chunks come off. I worked on this for half an hour after which time I had made virtually no progress. I simply couldn't put enough force on the knife from that angle to get through the muck.

"Damn.", I thought, "I'm going to have to unpack everything, pull out the tools, and see if I can remove the rear wheel.". I was tired. Really tired. I took a break, had my remaining water and then thought, "Time to man up."

I pulled off all the gear and got under the seat to pull out my tool roll. "I have never used this toolset before to remove a wheel. As a matter of fact, I don't think I've ever need to make a repair on my bike using it before", I mused as I looked at my tools. The extension for the tire wrench had not been removed since the day I put it in the roll, 18 years ago. It had become fused with the roll.

It took 20 minutes to get the damn tire wrench extension out of the tool roll. It was glued in there pretty good. Without the extension there was no way to remove the tire.

Next, and I was starting to really hurt from fatigue, was removing the saddle bags. This was an operation that I had performed so often, it's like taking off shoes. It's something you don't think about or consider. Calcium chloride had built up to such a degree it took me over 20 minutes just to get the damned bags off.

I was really hurting now. It was all easy work but I was so tired.

I pulled off the little cover over the rear wheel bolts, dirt and dust getting all over me. I thought about how someone who was squeemish about their new $1400 leathers might be much more frustrated. "I bought this Transit Suit to wear to protect me, not to look good in.", I reminded myself as I get more and more covered in dirt, dust and calcium chloride. It got all over everything. Me, my hands, my gear, my clothes.

Using the extension and the tire wrench went to loosen the wheel bolts.

"Ummm, duh.", I thought. What problem could I possibly have encountered?

Wheel bolts are on pretty tightly. There's alot of torque on those bolts so when you go to remove them the wheel spins.

I put the engine in gear and thus the engine spins.

I put the bike on the sidestand. The whole bike moves.

What I usually do is have someone step on the rear brake, but inconveniently no one was around and the little Kamikazees were no help, being too occupied trying to achieve their warriors dream of ritual suicide.

"Ok, this could be interesting. Thwarted.", I thought as I imagined how long I could be stuck here. "How to push the rear brake pedal down?", I pondered. I couldn't tie it to anything. Maybe I could use a rock. Then it hit me.

Gas can! I hung the two gallon gas can full of fuel off the rear brake lever and it worked like a champ.

I got the rear wheel removed, but I had forgotten that you had to loosen the rear brake caliper to get the wheel completely out. Looking at how encrusted it was, it would take me hours to clean up enough to a point where I'd be comfortable taking it off. I pulled the wheel aside to see if I could get a better angle on the lower clutch lever.

Using the trusty victorinox swisstool and contorting myself from the right side of the bike, I started slowly chipping away at the rock hard muck. Pick, scratch, hit, pry, drill, scrape, scrape scrape to clear way the chips and dust. Repeat process.

I don't know how long this took. Probably three quarters of an hour before I got enough of the muck scraped away to let the lower enough to engage the clutch. I cleaned it out a bit further for good measure figuring I had more of the muck to travel through and I didn't really want to do this again.

At least it wasn't raining and it wasn't cold. I was out in the blazing sun but with the breeze it didn't get too hot.

As I re-mounted the rear wheel I wondered about torque settings. I could just hear Duncan asking "So Yermo, what's the torque spec on those bolts?". Defiantly, I tightened them tigher, probably tighter than spec but not too tight. The rear tire will need to be switched out in Washington State anyways so I'll address the torque setting then.

I packed some of the gear back on the bike and took a photo. No trucks had come by for some time.

And this was the photo I stopped to take originally. Over two hours had passed. I was really tired and what I had failed to notice was how dry the air was and the toll the sun had taken on me.

The shot wasn't that good. But it was good that I had the problem here at a pulloff rather than going up the middle of the pass at speed shifting between gears. That could have sucked.

I went over the pass, tired out of my mind and continued on. There weren't any shots I hadn't already taken. Atigen Pass was not quite as impressive the second time through. "It's just another beautiful pass.", I thought as I struggled to stay awake.

The road wore on but I was making good time. The clutch continued to work. The Dalton was not the road everyone said it was, but the risks were there. They were mundane risks. Fatigue. Dehydration. Mechanical failure. They were the usual risks.

But it's a good road. And by this point, despite being crazy tired, I was enjoying it. It felt right to be on this road.

The last 50 miles were hell. I started getting so tired I could no longer see straight. Innuits are said to have 200 words describing snow. I probably have as many to describe pain and fatigue.

I was horizontal hold lost hurting tired. I get so tired sometimes all my joints ache and my eyes lose horizontal hold. It's like they oscillate turning everything into a blur. Every once of my being wants to shut down. My body screams to let it sleep. I get to so I can't even form sentences any more and short term memory goes out the door. I shake my head violently trying not to close my eyes. Vision restored for another few moments. I tried to stretch, tense my muscles. I thought about stopping, I really wanted to stop, but I was concerned about bears. Grizzlies to be specific. I knew I would just fall asleep right on my bike and I would be easy pickings for the beasts. I soldiered on. It was a risk either way.

But it sucked, only because I was beyond the point of exhaustion.

I arrived at Camp Coldfoot about 3 hours later than I had expected. It was evening now. I parked my bike, got my room key, carried my gear into the room and promptly passed out, muck covered and boots still on. I don't know how long I was out, but it was a while.

After some time I woke out of one of those feverish sleep you get after you've overexerted yourself and every muscle and joint in your body just aches. Your hands and feet swell up. A callous had split open on my right hand and in general my right hand hurt like crazy. It ached just moving my fingers. My feet had swollen in my boots so they hurt. My back was in agony and every joint creaked.

So I got up and dragged my hurtin' worthless sorry carcass across the parking lot. There were no motorcycles. No busses. Just trucks. All the tourists were gone. I continued the slog to drag my carcass into the cafe and sat down at the bar still semi asleep and having trouble thinking. After quite a while, a different bartender than the one from the one the other night showed up, a hurried man with a curled mustache. I ordered a wine. He looked at me as if I was crazy and I said "man, if I could have a beer I would. I so want a beer but I'm sick so I can't, but I can drink wine and you don't have whiskey". "Fair enough", he replied.

I sipped my bad merlot and contemplated the ride down here when a man sat down next to me. He was watching the bartender. Some kid worker type playing cards at a table behind us shouted at the bartender rudely for another round of beers and the bartender jumped, leaving us, to bring the kid out his beers.

"Punk kid. That's just rude.", the guy next to me said. "He should get up and get his own fucking beer from the bar. He's just a punk kid. It's disrespectful." We got to talking about respect, courtesy and good manners. He was a bitter man, I would guess in his 50's. We talked about this work. He was a trucker working for one of the companies involved with the Alaska Pipeline.

"Maintenance. These fuckers aren't doing the maintenance that needs to be done.", he complained as I thought about the tour and impressions I had. "So much isn't being done that needs to be. As the oilfield is depleted, more and more sand is sent down the pipeline causing it to corrode. There's also this bacteria", he went on. "Like idiots we bought all the steel from Japan and it's cheap grade. I guarantee you it's not 3/4" any more. It's corroded. It'll bite them in the ass eventually. We just had a couple hundred thousand barrel spill up here not long ago, and that was just a small one."

Then he asked about where I was from and I told him about me being on a cross country trip. "Then I need to chide you about riding. You riders never pay attention. Make sure when you pass a trucker, to first be visible in his rear views. I had some idiot just blow by me and you know, we use the whole road as we're driving. I went to dodge a big hole and nearly ran the fucker off the road.".

I told him about my riding style, "Yea, if it had been me you would have seen me in your rearviews until we made eye contact, and I would have waved as I passed by. I'm the kind of guy when I see a trucker in the right side of a left hand turn lane I stop behind his tailer and prevent traffic from bunching next to him. Then after he's made the corner, because we know they have to cut the inside lane and would normally have to wait for all these cars to pass probably causing him to miss the light, then I go. I always enjoy the four way blinker thank you I get."

"Well, that makes you more considerate and more aware than about 99% of people out there", he replied.

"The way I see it, I'm a tourist out here just screwing around, you guys are the ones working, so I try to give extra consideration", I said. "That's smart", he said "you never know how many hours the guy has been working. After about 9 hours you get really tired". We talked for a while longer. He mentioned he was in his pickup truck and had given a guy who was broken down a ride. "15 miles out of my way and then 15 miles back!", he exclaimed. "I went out of my way. Gave him a ride. Dropped him off and the rude fucker didn't even say thank you! That just gets to me!". I told him one of the things I had been thinking about on my trip was how kind words, courtesy, nice gestures seem to have much less of a lasting effect than one rude event. "Yea, I know. When someone does something you expect, when they are courteous it's what you expect, so you think for a moment, 'that was nice', and move on. But when someone is an asshole, it sticks with you like a thorn in your back. That's probably why I'm still angry about this rude fucker three years later". Uncomfortably he got up and left.

I found myself thinking about the things I cannot let go. They are of a much greater magnitude. In some cases they are things people did with malice to hurt the ones I care about. They put real effort behind it, in some cases decades, in other cases years. I keep thinking about whether or not to write about it.

One spent a year and half going after my mother and me to do us harm after my sister was killed in an auto-accident. She got the absolute cheapest rental car imaginable because he complained so much about the money. He didn't want her to get a rental car at all. He wanted her to rely on my mom, my 70+ year old semi-disabled mom, to drive her around. I had offered her my car, a solid Mercedes. They had a combined income in excess of $250K/year and lived as if they made $40K.

After Gesa was killed in the horrific half on halk head on collision and her daughter in the rear child safety seat suffered a broken neck and other traumas, he filed a legal action against my mom. When that didn't work, he would call and threaten her, "You will never see your granddaughter again.". He wanted to be paid. He wanted part of my fathers estate, money from my mom, money from me. He was the one that left us holding the bag with over $13K of funeral expenses he had promised to pay back. That's what life insurance is for, asshole.

This was the man who prevented my mom from having any time at all with her granddaughter at the funeral and who tried to sneak her out during the reception without even saying goodbye. If it hadn't been for my friends, my friends who mean so much more to me than family ever could, my mom would not even had the 15 seconds to say good bye.

What kind of human being does that?

So, distraught, she would drink and then she would fall down and hurt herself, sometimes very badly. Sometimes very very badly. I call her every day, but I don't see her all that often. Unless she called me to pick her up off the floor when she couldn't get up herself, she wouldn't tell me what happened. "Why didn't you go to the emergency room!", I would yell after seeing her bloodied and blackened face. Yea, Nightmare, and this was only a very small part of it.

I was left having to pick up the pieces time and time again being terrified wondering what I could do. Powerless again. And this was in combination with everything else that was going on at the same time.

All my mom wanted was to see her granddaughter again. Using the tools of patience and sacrifice, I worked on it doing what little I could. I was careful to do everything very correctly, as I always do. It took a year and a half, to just this last August, to get him to stop and, at least, partially see what he was doing made no sense. "Evil is blind. Evil makes excuses", Kyrin would say. Yes, this was evil incarnate. "But you don't know how hard it is. I'm the one suffering.", he would complain having absolutely no compassion or insight into the pain of others. Evil not aware of what it's doing and making excuses.

The attornies and accountants would call me and warn that he sounded like he was out to do me physical harm and that he was out to do as much financial damage as he could. He actually came do DC specifically to go after my mom. At one point even I thought he might become physical.

I made no threats, no violence and took no legal actions in response, just in case you were wondering. I confess, that I can squelch any feelings I have and do what's "right", makes me feel impotent at times. There's a powerlessness to it. You feel so weak.

I find myself wondering what guys like Phil would do in situation like this. He's an ass kicker and fixer. I don't think the evil fuck would have faired as well if I had been more like Phil. But I'm me and I don't know, or maybe I've unlearned, how to be like that.

My niece, the poor child only 3 years old, had suffered enough and her father was too fragile and mentally ill to handle any kind of direct effort. I just carefully used words to get through his delusion. It took a lot of patience and time and enduring alot of abuse.

This was all after I moved heaven and earth to help him when my sister died, because he was too much of a weakling to do anything himself. He asked me to do /everything/ including all the funeral arrangements, all the coordination with his parents and getting them into the country, all the legal investigations into his options with regard to the driver that killed my sister. I stepped up. I was asked to. He was supposedly family. What else was I going to do? There wasn't anyone else. My mom was in no shape to do it. So I did it, again. Friends came out of the woodwork to help. Everyone pitched in. Then he pulled the rug out from under me. I was left having to apologize to everyone, including a close friends father would had been so kind to help us with the injury and insurance angle of things.

I commented to my mom at the height of his misbehavior, "You have 6 portraits of him up here in the house, but not a single one of me. Given how much he's tried to hurt you and how much I've tried to help you all these years, does that make any sense?". "But he's got my granddaughter.", she would reply.

Donna and others say I have to forgive the evil fuck for what he did.

That will never happen.

Stewing just like the angry trucker who had just left, I thought my time will come. Eventually that door that was closed to allow me to do what I did will open again and the pain will come out. It may be years from now, but I know it's coming and I am not looking forward to that day.

I turned my attention to the TV. There was some kind of outdoor life show on. It was a hunting show. So much of life up here in Alaska seems to be focused on killing critters. The show showed some clean cut clearly city slicker looking guy who was all excited about ending the life of some large critter. They showed how they went out in the woods with their scent blocking clothes and other advanced gear.

They stalked a critter and the footage of this huge bull moose with just impressive antlers walking out of the woods was just incredible. It was a magnificent beast. I wish I could see a moose like this in the wild. They made a few attempts on the thing but it would sense something and move off.

Then they finally got an angle on it. I thought they were going to use a bow, but used a rifle instead. The guy pulled the trigger and you saw the moose flinch and run off. I thought it would drop right there, but I guess it was a bad shot so the moose, that magnificent beast, suffered needlessly.

That image will burn in my mind for some time. Such a magnificent critter. There's something magical about the remaining large Beasts in the world. I think the world was better off with the beast alive in it than having it's antlers mounted on some wall somewhere.

Conceptually I have no problem with hunting, but sport hunting just for trophies; wasteful hunting seems like a crime to me. The tour guide up in Deadhorse said the caribou population has exploded and the herd was in danger of collapse because it's consuming up all available food. "Another analogy for humans.". In this case, hunting caribou, to save a herd makes sense and is necessary, absent enough predators to keep things in balance.

But this moose. It was huge and impressive. "Moose numbers are in decline.", someone said.

A guy sat down next to me, a bear of a man with scraggly beard and crooked teeth. I think he said his name was James. He had a calm demeanor about him, a kindness. No anger. He said, "Yea, watch to see if they can haul that thing out." "So how much does a beast like that weigh?", I asked. "About 2500 lbs", he replied, "They'll have have to quarter it up to get it out, if they get it out at all. We get alot of guys coming up here to shoot moose and they shoot them too close to water. A bullet in the gut is hot and the moose will run to the water to cool off. Once it does that, there's no getting it out." "Wasteful.", I said. "Yea.", he replied.

I was really bothered by the scene of the moose being killed. There was no respect. No apologizing to the animal. Nothing ritual about it. It was just pulling a trigger and putting an end to some beast. "That's not the way it's supposed to be.", I thought.

The bartender walked in and switched the channel to the "Ice Road Truckers" show. He had been interviewed for the show some time before and, as he explained it, they had asked for his consent. He said he would give it if he got a copy of the raw footage. They never provided that but went ahead and aired the footage anyway. He was none to pleased.

James exclaimed while laughing, "Aww, man, I don't want to watch work!".

It turns out James was an ice road trucker, although he wouldn't call himself that. He was a trucker. He hauls stuff year round. Sometimes he hauls things on ice.

I asked how realistic the show was. He replied, "Not that realistic really. Sure, stuff like that happens but what they show in one show might happen in 5 years."

These are professional truckers after all. These guys know how to do this job.

James said he had seen some of those guys around. "They hauled in a bunch of guys from Canada and the lower 48 just to make trouble. I think they want the accidents and the mishaps. It makes a better story."

There was a scene on where some guy is driving through a blizzard. "And so and so is driving through a Phase III", the announcer said. "That ain't no phase III. You can see 5 reflectors. That's hardly a Phase I. That's what I call good driving weather!", James said while chuckling.

The the next while he talked about what conditions on ice were really like and some of the mishaps and challenges he's faced. In a phase III, it's blowing snow so hard you can only see your reflection in the windshield. There's no progress. Sometimes they'll go behind construction equipment like a grader. "They can pull some serious weight", or something like that he would say. He talked about going up Atigen Pass and having a truck come down the hill too fast on the ice and start to jackknife. He recovered before they passed each other but they were so close the mirrors smacked. He talked about being in blizzard conditions in a convoy of trucks where visibility is so limited you can hardly see one reflector. "It's the last guy in line that's screwed. By the time the convoy moves he's the one furthest behind and they stop being able to see the truck in front of them. I've seen guys run off the road in those conditions, but there was nothing I could do so I kept driving", he would explain. I asked about what happens to those guys. "Well, they have heaters. The old guys would keep parachutes that they would strap over their rigs. They'd crack the windows and run camp stoves until someone came to pull them out.".

He said -25degF was good driving weather. "The ice isn't too brittle.", he would say. "Get to -50defF and it cracks".

We talked for a good long while. He talked about the company he works for. At one point, this bear of a man asked me why I was on for such a long ride. "I'm out here, Away, trying to get my head screwed on straight.", I replied. I figured he would be dismissive but surprisingly he said, "Yea, I can understand that. I did the same thing for year. I went out and hunted and fished. Then it came time to get back on with things."

He asked me about being on the road on the motorcycle. "Not too bad. It's not all that", I would say, "I thought this was going to be a real challenge." "You're about 5 years too late for that. The road is in the best shape it's ever been. It's that show and the tour companies. It's brought alot of attention to the road.", he explained.

I mentioned the one section of deep gravel. "Yea, there's 2 mile that can be challenging", he said. I asked where 2 mile was, was it a 2 mile hill? He explained that he meant mile marker two. You'll see that terminology used all over the place, even on maps. "At 25 mile turn right" kind of thing.

He was on the night shift so had just gotten up but it was his day off. He was bored. I should have asked whether or not he'd be open to talking more, maybe showing me the rig he drives and giving me more of an insight into this life. but I was exhausted. I had some dinner and went back to my room and promptly collapsed.

I like Camp Coldfoot. It's got that kind of staging area feel to it. You have the feeling you can glimpse into other lives very easily by just sitting at the bar.

Road Report Day 36 - Coldfoot Camp to Deadhorse, Prudhoe Bay, Alaska

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 21:03:15 EST

I'm currently in Fairbanks at a motel that has WIFI. I arrived yesterday in the late afternoon. I've been tired these last few days. I had arrived early so I could write but realized I was just stupid tired. I decided to take a day off and just extended my stay here a day. I'll probably hit the road tomorrow.

I've heard from so many people about the blog. It's a bit overwhelming. The idea that so many people are reading what I write and responding with encouragement and, three today, with selfishness. "Yermo, don't feel like you have to write every day", Phil, who I met in Deals' Gap wrote. Today he recanted and wants me to write more. A few others have said the same kind of thing.

One friend who I haven't seen in more than 20 years said she was enjoying the blog but didn't understand all the motorcycling references. I try to write for a diverse audience. I've got the Advrider.com guys. Friends. People I've met along the way. Other motorcyclists. If I write something or make some reference you don't understand and would like to know, please ask! It would help me if you asked. If I can learn to do this well, do this in a more accessible fashion, maybe I can do more of it. So please do feel free to ask questions.

I have to admit I really enjoyed Coldfoot Camp. It has a neat feel to it. It's a working camp. The motel is primarily there for truckers. As you go down the hallway, you'll see signs "Day Sleeper, please be quiet.". Many of these guys work the night shift. Like so many things up here, it all has an industrial, almost military, feel to it. There's dirt and mud everywhere. Huge tractor trailers pull into the muddy open space between the buildings. It can't really be called a parking lot. Truckers come and go. You can watch them as they work on their rigs, adjust and tighten loads.

The entrance to the cafe has huge steel grates for steps so you can shake the mud off your boots.

When I arrived at the motel, some tourists walked out that had just come up on the one of the busses. "Er muss Deutsch sein", I heard one woman say to the other woman. ("He must be German".) "Ja, so mehr oder weniger.", I replied. ("Yea, more or less."). Everyone in the group laughed. A man in the group, I have forgotten his name but hope he contacts me here to remind me, worked for BMW. So we chatted for a bit about the fundamental superiority of BMWs in a tongue in cheek fashion. In German, you often refer to motorcycles, and other transport, as "machines". "That's a superb machine for this kind of travel.", would be how one phrases it.

As has been the case with so many people from as far out as 1500 miles, I would see them again and again on my way up to Deadhorse.

Rob and Wayne, who I met at the Arctic circle, were already there. They had parked their bikes, BMW R1200 GS's, around the side of the motel. They were going to do their run up early the next day. We talked about what we had heard about the road.

In the cafe they had a buffet until 9pm. Unfortunately, because of my crazy restricted diet there was nothing I could eat. They reopened the kitchen at 9pm at which time I could order off the menu. This evening it was mostly tourists. There were alot of riders.

I was standing in the bar waiting for a glass of wine. Yea, beer and wine only and because of my inability to deal with starches I fall back to wine. In a trucker bar. Drinking a glass of wine. Riding a BMW. Maybe I should break out the espresso maker. Yea, I'm from DC. Not the impression I wanted to make. These are no nonsense folks and don't take kindly to no sophistication.

I got to talking to a guy, a rider, named Christopher. He had just come back down from Deadhorse with his two buddy's Mike and Greg. They all rode BMW R1200GS's. I sense a pattern developing. I asked him about the road and conditions still fearing that maybe up ahead I would encounter the hell that everyone had been talking about. He mentioned sections of road and gravel and mud, but nothing awe inspiring. He seemed to think I would make it but suggested that I get my bike power washed as soon as possible. The calcium chloride reacts with metal like road salt does and if you leave it on there your bike will be damaged.

I sat down with him and his buddys and sipped my glass of wine. Christopher is a professional photographer and my impression was that he was probably a very good one. Mike had just retired. Greg worked in business development, but I forget for what company. A good bunch of guys.

One thing I dislike about not writing every day is that I begin to forget names and details of conversations. I was pretty beat that evening, and I guess that affected things.

As we sat there, a group of four KLR riders showed up. "No, that can't be", I said aloud. Sure enough it was the four guys I had met at the Exxon Station some 1500 miles ago. Chris, Mike and Greg got up saying they wanted to get an early start. I figured I would not see them again so I said "see ya". Chris had written down the name, address and number of a shop that has a power washer and offers a service to clean off adventure bikes coming down off the Dalton and left it on the table next to my wine before he left. "Very thoughtful.", I said aloud.

I went down and greeted the four KLR riders. They've told me their names like 5 times but I have forgotten all of them. Bummer. Really good guys. We ended up having great conversations. They came in to eat. I had already eaten but I sat with them and we chatted for a good while. This was like the third long conversation we had had on our way up this far. They had just returned from Deadhorse and were going to grab a quick bite to eat before heading south to a campsite. Eventually, they asked me, as so many have done, "Why are you doing this long trip?". "I'm out here trying to get Away so I can get my head screwed on straight. I've been through kind of a wringer nightmare these last several years.". Some people leave it at that others ask more. They wanted to know more so I told them a bit about what had happened.

I've been very surprised. Random strangers have been very kind. Not a single person I've met has been accusational, or negative, or anything other than complimentary and supportive. It's a bit unnerving and is messing with my world view a bit. That's good. That's part of why I'm out here. To change the way I think.

The dad in the group, again I've forgotten his name, said he was never able to do what I was doing because of the farm and raising a family. There were always obligations. "8 weeks on a motorcycle does not make up for 17 years", I said. Everyone agreed. "Yea, that would just not be worth it.", one replied."We could trade lives.", I joked. "Yea, no". Good answer. I wouldn't wish my life on any human being except maybe my worst enemies.

It got late. I was tired. The sun was still blazing in the sky. The Alaska sun up North is a bitch. It's like this searing radiation source that burns as soon as it touches you. The light comes in at a crazy low angle. Even at midnight the sun is still seen on the horizon.

The motel was loud. Really loud. Trucks idling in the parking lot, people shouting to one another and paper thin walls conspired to prevent me from sleeping.

6AM rolled around and I still couldn't sleep. "Now this is a recipe for disaster.", I said quietly to myself as I crawled out of bed. I was showered and packed up and at the gas pump by 6:30. Anyone who knows me knows that this is the sign of the end times. I probably got less than 3 hours of sleep. Unfortunately, I had many hundreds of dollars of non-refundable reservations.

As I was walking to the gas pump I noticed something I hadn't seen before. A post office. Mail is delivered every Monday. I have a friend who works as a postal historian and the office there made me think of her. With Jenny in mind, I snapped this photo.

Between Camp Coldfoot and Deadhorse is 240 miles of nothing. It's the longest stretch in the USA without services. My bike can just barely do 240 miles on it's 4.2 gallon tank so I had, as previously mentioned, picked up a 2 gallon gas can. I filled the tank and the gas can and using a better approach than the previous day bungied the thing onto my bike.

This extra weight was the difference between a bike that was heavy and one that was, in my humble opinion, too heavy. Getting this beast up on the center stand on uneven ground turned out to be quite a challenge.

I re-injured my back the first time I did it as I parked my bike in front of the cafe. I had injured my back pretty seriously back in September. Donna, a very close friend who is also a chiropractor, worked on me for ages to fix it. I had been afraid it would cause me problems but until recently it's been fine. Now it hurts again and my heels are all tingly. I considered briefly how an injury could really put me down. It's probably a greater risk than crashing.

I went into the cafe and had breakfast. As I was sipping my coffee Chris, Mike and Greg showed up so I got up, coffee in hand, and sat down with them. I was dead tired, so it was like my fifth cup of coffee. I remember being impressed by the fact that both Chris and Greg got up to stretch. They didn't care at all that they were in a trucker cafe. They just walked over to an empty spot on the floor and did various stretches. Greg had injured his back putting his bike up on the center stand. It's a common affliction. Chris practiced Yoga. He was a tall and muscular man who was also surprisingly flexible. I would guess he was around my age. You might think he was one of those flakey new age yoga types, but this guy had a seriousness to him. A substantive nature. It was as if the calm and peace he exuded was real, not a false affectation.

And, he did ride his R1200GS up and back from Deadhorse.

"Membership.", I thought. Here I was allowing my view of another human being to be expanded because of a single symbol. It's strange how that works, even in me. When you tell someone who hasn't been there yet that you've been up and back to Deadhorse it changes their view of you almost instantaneously. It imbues you with certain meta-data, certain attributes in the listeners mind that may or may not have any basis in reality.

When I'm the subject of that view change, I'm stymied by it. "It's just some road to some arbitrary place in the middle of no where. It's just a destination as an excuse for a journey. I'm just some guy out for a Long Sunday Drive. Infrastructure in this part of the hemisphere is fantastic. The magic of gasoline can be readily found everywhere. This is no big deal.", I would think. But here I was, applying that same view change to another human being and he had "only" ridden up from California. "That's a long serious ride.", I found myself thinking ignoring the ride I've done completely. It's always fascinating to pay attention to how things are different when you see something in someone else and then to compare how that same thing feels when you are the subject.

He went and got the business card of the shop that had the pressure washer. "Wow. That's very thoughtful.", I said. "Damn thoughtful indeed. Good guy.", I thought to myself.

They needed to get going to get to a three day Ferry. They were going to camp on deck. I wonder how that went.

I sat alone for a little bit. Trucks came and went. Most of the tourists were gone.

I pondered the road to come. I had been told the stretch of the Dalton Highway up to Camp Coldfoot was the easy part and that it got bad going North. "Gravel the size of baseballs. Deep mud. 'horrible!", I had been told by many. Many others would say, "oh, you'll be fine".

The KLR riders had said the mosquitoes were terrible up there. "Like out of National Geographic", one said.

The time came to be gone. so off I went.

Out of the parking lot and onto the Dalton and it was less than 10 yards before I ran into my first contruction section where I had to wait.

Most of the contruction sections on the route from Coldfoot to Deadhorse involve pilot cars. You have to stand and wait. I had been told that the waits are terrible so I was prepared to hang out for a good long while. The Slow/Stop Sign guy waved for me to be up front so I went around the semi and parked next to him.

A few minutes later the pilot car showed up and I was off again. The pilot cars move very slowly and will stop randomly depending on what truckers and construction equipment are doing. I would guess I followed the pilot car for between 5 and 10 miles.

As I think I've mentioned elsewhere, they use calcium chloride, essentially a salt, to bind gravel and dirt together to control the dust. It forms a surface the approximates pavement for a fraction of the cost. In the process of creating the top surface of the road they dump out sections of the stuff. Then graders come to distribute it evenly across the road. Then the water trucks come and wet the stuff down. As it dries it hardens. However, while it is wet it's muck.

This section had been wetted a while ago so it wasn't too bad. It had not yet hardened. The surface was relatively soft with small gravel and stones.

But it wasn't bad. Once the pilot car pulled over I could easily do 45 to 55mph with a wide margin for error.

The surface of the road changes randomly and as I mentioned previously, what makes the Dalton Highway very dangerous is not that it's difficult. It's that it changes without warning.

The beauty of the landscape is also a danger. While it is not difficult, it does take attention to detail to ride this road. Looking around can distract you from potholes and larger bits of gravel, dips, etc. As you ride along you see views like this.

This mountain was impressive. The road here looks good but if you wander too close to the shoulders it becomes very loose and very deep very quickly.

There are bridges. Most have a wooden surface. This one stream was probably the clearest stream I have ever seen. The water was nearly invisible. I stopped on the bridge to try to capture it.

Mike and Greg had been talking about the photos Chris had been taking. He's a professional photographer. I would be curious to see what photos he took. I don't have contact info for them, but I hope they contact me here to let me know where their trip photos will be posted.

Along the Dalton there are countless streams flowing down from mountains and along valleys.

"The worst road in the world?", I thought. "Hmmm. Look. Bridge with guardrail. hmmm".

In places it's hard to tell if the road is actually paved or if it's the calcium chloride hardpack.

Many of the streams here had a skyblue tint to them.

Probably the most famous section of the road is Atigen Pass which is supposed to be crazy steep and just one long slog up and over a mountain. It's supposed to be miles long.

I came upon a pass and wondered if this was it.

There was no sign but I didn't think this was it. It was a long pass but not that long nor that steep. It opened up into this incredible valley.

I had still not run into anything really hard. I had been slightly caught off guard from time to time. Surface changes from pavement to gravel can wake you up. They happen very infrequently though.

After some more miles of uneventful hardpack and gravel road, I came across the Atigen Pass sign.

I had heard that the grade of the pass was something crazy steep. It wasn't. It was just reasonable steep. It was, however, long. The surface was a bit crumbly as if the hardpack was breaking up a bit. There were quite a few places for tractor trailers to pull over, so I had plenty of opportunities to snap photos.

The pass was just beautiful. Maybe it was that it had been hyped up so much or maybe it was that it was in fact that spectacular. It's hard to tell given how subjective these experiences are.

Avalanches are clearly a problem here as the guard rails can attest to.

The worst road in the world has guardrails. Yea.

The surface here was a bit dusty so I would go very slowly as tractor trailers passed. The dust would turn visibility to near zero for a few seconds. Fortunately, there was a strong breeze.

Going down the other side seemed more challenging than coming up the South side. Down is generally harder than up, but my impression was the grade on the North side of the pass was steeper than the South side. However it was not nearly as steep as some of the dips earlier on. I would be told by a trucker later that some of those dips, several hundred feet deep can reach grades of 12%.

This, however, was not 12%, I don't think.

Of course, the photos does not capture the down grade angle. Let's put it this way, my foot is on the brake to prevent the bike from rolling forward. If you put a bowling ball down here, it would roll away at increasing speed.

As you go through the North side of Atigen Pass, you'll notice critters on the road. On the last trip we called them Kamikazees. They like to run out and try to commit suicide as you pass on the interstate. These ones, truly tired of life and all it's burdens, just lie out in the road by the dozens.

These were seen every few hundred yards for over a hundred miles. I tried my best. I really did not to hit any of them. I try to dodge the butterflies as well. ("He's so sensitive". Yea, whatever.)

I would hit the horn if they didn't scatter. One time one of the little buggers lying in the road got up ran to the left and just as I was approaching made a mad dash for the front wheel. "SHIT!! Oh little guy, I'm so sorry! Shit!" as the little guy sliced himself in half, achieving his warriors dream. I beat myself up about it. I still do. I hate killing critters. ("Oh, he's so sensitive". Yea, whatever.) Cute little critters, albeit somewhat suicidal.

They talk about baseball sized gravel. Yea, there's gravel as you can see in the photo, but it's rare and it's concentrated on the sides of the road. In the traffic lanes, it's pounded down and really isn't all that hard to ride on. You can see the progression of gravel sizes from the lower end of the photo to the upper. The upper is closer to the edge of the road. (These guys weren't entirely in the middle of the road, although most would like out in the traffic lanes, I'm guessing because it's more comfortable.)

As you descend down the Northern side of the pass, it opens up into yet another overwhelmingly beautiful valley. How many dozens of these have I seen so far? I never get tired of them.

Remember the German tourists I met at the Camp Coldfoot motel? I'm pretty sure I saw them in this group as I passed by. Tour busses run this route up to Deadhorse. Run of the mill normal tour busses. I didn't see anything special about them, not even extra mud guards.

As I approached the far end, the mountains opened up into yet another vast rolling plain.

There's a quality to this land that's different. You really do feel far away when you're standing around out here. In many places, as far as the eye can see there's hardly any trace of human presence. Traffic is heavier than I was told. A truck, bus, or RV will go by at least every half hour or so. Often it's more frequent. Strangely I saw very very few motorcycles either up or back. Maybe 3 in total. All of them were adventure bikes. I did not see a single sport touring bike like mine.

I thought back to what Chris and others had told me. Calcium chloride gets all over the bike and it eventually eats into the metal causing pitting. Leave it on there long enough and even stainless steel can be eaten through. I thought about my bike. I had given Duncan and Ian a hard time about their pretty supermodel bikes. I had joked that I would take a Ducati up here, but now, seeing how sticky this calcium chloride muck is, I would think twice. I would at least put some kind of fork slider cover on, like I have on my bike. I think without some kind of cover on the forks, the fork seals and possibly even the tubes would be toast by the end of the ride.

At this point the bike wasn't bad yet, but I did ponder what it would look like before the end of the trip. Duncan had asked if I really wanted to take my pristine looking bike on such a trip. "Of course. That's what it's for. To be ridden.", I replied. He wondered if I shouldn't put a plastic film over all exposed parts of the bike or somehow protect it's appearance.

I can understand that, but it's not me. If I own something, I want to use it. I do not want the ownership of a thing to limit me. A motorcycle is a symbol of freedom. Attempting too much to hold back the hands of time and Use becomes just another cage. Another reason Not To Do A Thing.

I take care of it as evidenced by the fact I've owned it for 18 years and am riding it, so far successfully, across country. But I am not compulsive about it. I do not let it stop me from riding it whereever I want in whatever conditions, whenever. If I crash it and it dies, I am prepared to let it go even though I love my bike and would be very sad to see it go.

The more I ride it the more I love it. This has been going on for years. But I have to ride it. There's no point just leaving it in the garage. I pondered how bad it would look when I was done. What if she really started to look like an 18 year old bike and not near showroom new?

"Just because she's doesn't look as young as she used to, doesn't mean you love her any less.", I mused.

I think I see another parallel to human relationships.

I once had a discussion a long time ago with a friend, Pilar, who is simply model beautiful. She was telling me about a photo shoot that reminded her of her modelling days when she was "young and beautiful".

I had thought about it long and hard and replied, "What do you mean "when"? There are passing fads in this world. things that in one context are beautiful and when you revisit them some time later they've lost their charm. Then there is that rare kind of enduring beauty. The kind that becomes more meaningful, more engaging, more nuanced the longer you experience it. That kind of beauty can never grow old.".

I think about my bike. I get more compliments from more people about my bike now than I ever have before. My own impression about how good my bike looks has changed, improved, with experience. Even cracked, faded, scratched, dulled, dented and scraped, I love the way my bike looks now more than ever. Each scratch, crack and blemish is a story.

People say that men grow more distinctive with age and women just grow old.

Bullshit.

I think that's one of those things, like the Dalton Highway and Atigen Pass, that you just hear so often it colors your experience of it so in your mind, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, you still believe what you were told. I know so many women my age who look so much better, so much more interesting, so much more beautiful than they did when they younger. This applies to the youngin's I've known over the past few years as well. Yes, Rachel K., you too.

Alone, out here in the middle of nowhere, free to think. Free to be open, I began to understand, to experience, what it meant to be Away from the voices of the maddening crowd.

This calcium chloride is much nastier than I thought. This may do my bike in. "How can you do that?!? It's such a nice bike. It'll be a collectors item", they would say. But, alone, here out in the open vastness, I can let my bike grow old, on this ride if it happens. I love my bike and I know it cannot be replaced, but despite that I will not fear the day I lose it, even if that day is today. I will experience it as a moment and enjoy it.

I think there in lies another lesson for me. I do not do the same with people. When it comes to people I care about, my fear of losing them or causing them pain overrides everything else. I become paralyzed. I try so hard. I will not "take them out in the dirt" as it were. If I think I may lose them tomorrow, I pull back, sometimes abruptly. I'm like a parent so afraid of losing a child, I prevent that child from playing in the mud or getting scraped. Without those bumps, those bruises, those stories will that child grow up to be interesting? Interested in the world? Or just afraid?

I think I see now that this fear prevents me from doing many things that I would probably do if I were not Afraid, not afraid of the bumps, scapes, dings and scratches I may cause as we move through life, through this moment together.

It was really peaceful out here in the vast openness.

As I stood there, thinking the road was an easy cakewalk, a watering truck passed by.

"Bummer. More muck.", I thought. "But it's really not that bad. The bike will just get a little dirtier. That's ok."

It doesn't look so bad, and it isn't really. It's just that when wet this stuff turns into a kind of sticky dough that gets sluffed up and covers the bike turning into a kind of cement. You can pick at it with a pocket knife and it's hard and crumbly but sticks tenaciously.

The wet didn't last long. I guess the truck had just started it's run and the construction I thought was going to materialize didn't. Usually they wet the road down just after they put down new surface gravel and calcium chloride, which tends to be alot muckier. More on that later.

I passed one of those mega-oversized-loads. I should have taken more photos. I think there was a setup behind with motors that pushed. This was crazy large.

I was cruising along for some many miles on perfectly smooth hardpack similar to what you see in the photo above. There's usually a small layer of dust and ground up gravel on top so it's not exactly like driving on pavement. The tires tend to wander a bit and you feel that stopping performance won't be nearly as good. But you get used to it. And after many more miles you unconsciously pick up speed.

Then, as I've been saying, the road changes unexpectedly. Sometimes you can't really tell where the transition is until you've passed over it.

Gravel!

I hit it doing about 65 or 70. I got lost in thought and hadn't realized I was going that fast. It was a little squirrelly but not too bad. You don't hit the brakes. You don't grab the bars too tightly. The front wheel will do whatever it's going to do. You let off the throttle slowly, if you can and let the engine slow you down.

It's no problem. You just don't want to make any really sudden changes.

Once I slowed down I was able to cruise along at something like 45mph without a problem.

This gravel, about 80 miles outside of Deadhorse wasn't that bad.

What's interesting is that out here the road is built up in places 16 feet off the permafrost. I was told that they have a layer of styrofoam at the base to further protect the permafrost from melting. Underneath here there is 1500 feet of frozen earth, which is why water pools so readily on the surface. This pooled water is also why there is an amazing mosquito population.

So basically the road is a big mound in the middle of the permafrost. Many of the truck accidents you hear about are truckers tending too close to the edge of the road in the snow and falling over.

The Dalton Highway follows the Alaskan Pipeline. The pipeline is the reason the road even exists.

I did not know how central the pipeline and Prudhoe Bay are to the Alaskan economy. I have the feeling the pipeline touches every Alaskan's life in one way or another.

I eventually came upon the big bouncy gravel that everyone said was so hard. "Baseball sized gravel!", they said. "Yea, if you run off the road, maybe.", I thought as I saw this new type of gravel. Yea, this stuff was bouncy. It was uneven, but it was totally doable. You just get rattled a little bit. No where was there anything large enough to cause you a tank slapper or anything that might tip you. The Telluride fire trail up the side of the mountain I tried was orders of magnitude more challenging. This was easy.

It's the same as everywhere else. Don't hit the brakes too hard. Keep your hands loose. Keep the speed to something reasonable. I think I was doing 40mph or so. Don't make any sudden changes. Scan ahead. Watch the ruts. Etc. No problem.

Now if you wander too close to the edges, yes, there are big bits of gravel. So don't do that.

As I got closer to Deadhorse the temperature dropped suddenly. It went down from the mid sixties to the thirties in no time. A strong wind developed. In the distance I saw bluffs that still had snow.

I came upon a hiker who said he saw Muskoxen but unfortunately I did not see any. As a matter of fact, other than the little Kamikazee critters who continued to try to commit ritual suicide under my tires but failed miserably, I didn't see any critters at all.

As I got close to Deadhorse I saw a place a truck ran into the permafrost. It's soft. It sinks. "It would suck if I drove my bike into that.", I thought.

The gravel continued.

From here out it got really cold. I had heard from the KLR riders that it had been really warm in Deadhorse the previous day and that the mosquitoes were fierce. It was in the 30's with a strong wind. There were no mosquitoes and also no rain.

I should have put on the electric vest. It was cold out there. But the fleece jacket thing I had bought in Victoria and was wearing under my Transit Suit was working like a champ. That combined with the heated grips Duncan got me for was enough to keep me just comfortable enough to keep going. I really didn't want to have to take my jacket and fleece liner off in that wind to put the electric vest on. It was foolish. A moments discomfort for hours of warm bliss is a sacrifice I should have made.

There in lies another parallel. Sometimes we endure uncomfortable situations for much longer than we should because we don't want to deal with a short but finite much greater discomfort.

So I froze my ass a bit all the way to Deadhorse. By the time I rolled into town I was really tired and bloody cold. The lack of sleep had caught up to me. I figured I would be on the tour the next day so I could take pictures of Prudhoe Bay and Deadhorse then.

The crazy thing was I made it up to Deadhorse on a single tank of gas. 246 miles indicated after putting around a bit. I only have a 4.2 gallon tank. "Pretty cool.", I thought. My motorcycle, which as I've said I simply love, is also crazy fuel efficient.

I found the Arctic Carribou Inn, checked in, and got myself a cup of coffee to wake up and warm up. The Inn was much like the one at Camp Coldfoot. This one had an even more military barracks feel to it. There were alot of tourists.

As I walked around inside, I ran into the German tourists with the guy that works at BMW. Small world up here. Very small world, in a very big place.

Then I headed over to the General Store, which was a ways away, to take obligatory "I made it to Deadhorse, that's gotta mean something" shot.

Where I ran into Rob and Wayne. They had arrived some hours before and were staying at a different "hotel". There are quite a number of "hotels" up at Deadhorse.

One guy was telling me they get a lot of motorcyclists up there, some from as far away as Argentina.

"How many times have I heard about the 'Tierra Del Fuego' ride on this trip?", I wondered beginning to realize I should not think about that too much. Just a little while ago, just today, before I started writing this entry I ran into three Brazillians who were going up to Prudhoe. The stickers on the one GS they had indicated it had been in most South American countries.

"Oh, this is not good. An Idea is starting to form ...", I began to worry as I thought "I am honestly afraid of South America because of all the stories I've heard .. but fear paralyzes me and keeps me static. If the stories of Deadhorse were so exaggerated could the stories of South America be as well?" I had talked to several people, Tom, Zan, these Brazillian guys. "It's doable. A great trip. People all along the way are wonderful.", they would say. "No Problem".

As I stood here with the Deadhorse sign as a backdrop, I began to ponder ... "How long it would take me to relearn Spanish? Can I do something to train my body to handle starches and sugars again? Could I do a trip like that on a BMW K100RS?".

Today I got an email from some German friends saying there's a guy that's done it on an R1 ...

I wonder ...

No post today ...

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 01:20:35 EST

I'm back in Fairbanks at a hotel. I'm too beat to write much today and there's alot to tell. I'm thinking I'm just going to hole up here tomorrow and write a long report about the Dalton Highway, Deadhorse and the return trip.

I think then I'm going to take a day trip down to Valdez the next day. There's supposed to be a glacier you can see from the road and a boat tour that sees the same. I've never seen a glacier so I was thinking I'd like to.

I was hanging out in the Coldfoot Camp bar when the bartender switched on the Ice Road Truckers show because someone mentioned he was on it.

"I don't want to watch work!", the guy next to me said. That led to a very interesting conversation.

More on that later. I'll be a very long post. My apologies in advance.

Road Report Days 34, 35 - Fairbanks to Camp Coldfoot on the Dalton Highway.

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 01:24:09 EST

I had left Tok and headed to Fairbanks. I needed to make time so I rarely stopped to shoot photos but as I was riding through the landscape here, which continued to be beautiful, it dawned on me that I have not often mentioned the horror show that's been unfolding on my helment and bike.

Ever since I got into British Columbia, the bugs have just been horrific. I remember the mosquitos from the '92 trip, but this is much different. These beasts are HUGE. I don't know what kind of bugs they are but some leave truly nastly large green splotches. My Transit Suit is covered with them as is the bike. When they hit my helmet, it's such an impact that I can feel it through the padding. In addition, there seems to be an explosion in the dragon fly population. I have never hit a dragon fly before but now I'm hitting them left and right. These are not your average little dragon flies. These are beasts. When they hit the leathers I feel it as if it were a small stone. Yuck. It's going to take forever to clean this mess up.

The bugs are a constant. But after a while you just get used to it, so used to it that you forget to mention it.

At a gas station I saw one of the only older BMW's I've seen on the trip. This styles is called an "air head". They stopped making them in the '80s, but I think this one probably dates back to the late '70s. Bruce has one, an R100RS.

"Have you seen one of these before?", he said as he pointed to a patch on his jacket. He had his BMW 1,000,000 Mile patch. "Yea, but it's been a while.", I replied. I thought about that momentary exhange for some days to come. "Status symbol", I thought, "not one that I would ever want to have.". Riding used to be about numbers to me. How many miles did you do today? How far have you gone? Always numbers. Numbers don't mean much to me anymore. I haven't checked how far I've travelled. Is it 7000 or 8000 miles? More? Less? I don't know and I don't really care.

I saw more moose along the way.

I had stayed in a Super 8 Motel with WIFI, which took FOREVER to find. I had wanted to catch up on the blog since I hadn't written any posts in a few days.

It was hot in Fairbanks, really hot. Somehow the sun in Alaska is brighter and hotter than it is elsewhere. You can feel it immediately when you walk outside, even late at night. It burns. I imagine it's a small hint of what radiation burns must feel like. It's intense. I was hot and very unhappy about it. The Transit Suit does not do well in slow traffic in the heat. You just cook.

The next day I got up early because I wanted to make it to Camp Coldfoot on the Dalton. I had expensive reservations at the "motel" for Friday and Sunday, and a separate reservation at the Caribou Inn in Deadhorse. So I had to keep a schedule. Rooms book up quickly in both locations and given I didn't know what the Dalton Highway was going to be like I didn't want to press my luck by camping. I needed a good nights sleep. The reservations were non-refundable.

The section of the Dalton Highway from Camp Coldfoot to Deadhorse is 240 miles of nothing. No services, no stops, no nothing. My bike can just barely do 240 miles on a tank so I didn't want to push it. After some searching around I finally found a store that had some smallish gas cans. I could have chosen the one gallon can but I thought I should carry a bit more in case I encounter an out of gas rider. I would have plenty to spare.

With the empty can bungied down I headed out of town. Once you get north of Fairbanks things start getting remote very quickly. It wasn't too many miles up the road to the Dalton before I started seeing heavy equipment being hauled.

Big machinery.

I had heard about grading repair construction on the Dalton which involved a grader evening out piles of material on the road. I was surprised to run into a section of road where this was being done well in advance of getting to the Dalton.

The mound of material was too high for me to cross. "This could become a real problem if I needed to jump sides quickly.", I wondered as I considered the roads ahead. When they do this work, they also wet the road making it slippery. The front and rear wheels slip and slide a bit. If you have no off-road experience this can be rather disconcerting. It was of no concern to me. The bike went in the general direction I wanted it to. "The Dalton is said to be much worse", I thought.

I came upon an overlook and wanted to take a photo. The scenery was spectacular as it has been for ages now, but I'm still not tired of it. I rolled left, came to a stop and when I wanted to move forward I let out the clutch but nothing happened. The clutch lever was loose and it would not engage. It felt as if the clutch cable had just broken.

I examined the clutch lever and could see that the cable was still, for the first 1/2 inch of lever travel, pulling the lever, but it would stop. "Hmmm, the clutch cable must finally be stuck." I got off the bike, took off my gloves, helmet and removed my ear plugs. It was hot in the direct sun. I played with the clutch lever some more and heard a clunking sound.

"Now this could get interesting.", I said outloud with zen like calm as I considered that the most likely explanation for the clunking sound was that my clutch had just disintegrated basically putting an immediate end to my trip.

I was calm. As a matter of fact, I was surprised to realize, as I stood there on the side of the road out in the middle of No Where with a broken motorcycle that Would Not Go, that I had no emotional reaction to this event at all. I started to imagine what would happen. I considered starting to tear the bike down right there. Maybe I could patch something together. I thought about how long I would have to wait. I checked the cellphone. Yup, no signal. I played with the lever some more confirming that an ugly sound was emanating from below. I thought about inconvenient fortuitous interruptions. "$600 in hotel reservations gone.", I realized. Oh well.

If this had been during the Nightmare where everything on earth would go wrong all the time, I would have had a strong emotional reaction. I would have felt that this breakdown was somehow my fault. It would have confirmed my worst fears about myself. The fact that my machine let me down would have brought back memories of being told "you're a failure", so many times. I would have found some reason to tie this event to my own self worth. It would have devastated me inside. Only those who know me the best could tell when this happened.

But today, Away, I was calm. In a strange way I was looking forward to the consequences. I could let Deadhorse go. "Deadhorse is an arbitrary excuse for a Journey. Maybe this new journey will be more interesting.". I poked around the lever. Yup. Let the lever go, and it only moves about 1/2 inch leaving the rest of the travel useless. Put the bike in gear, let the lever go, yup. Nothing. Bike No Go. I thought maybe if I engaged and disengaged the lever and thus the partially actuating clutch, maybe it would collapse enough to let me ride off in first. I kept hearing the clunking sound from underneath. "Before I jump to conclusions, let me investigate. I tend to jump to the worst possible conclusion and while most often it's been the correct one, maybe this time is different.". I played with the clutch some more, all the while frying in the intense blazing Alaskan Sun. "That's funny. I left the clutch lever out abruptly and the clunking noise I hear is coming from the exhaust." I began to imagine catastrophic internal engine damage, but realized I couldn't come up with a scenario that made any sense where the clutch self destructing would affect the exhaust. I looked underneath the bike. The clutch cable connects to a lever that is parallel with the exhaust on the rear of the engine. There's alot of mud down there. I reached up, pulled and let the clutch lever go. I could see the lower level raise and lower and heard the clunking sound.

"Now look at that.", I actually said aloud.

A rock had lodged itself exactly between the lower lever and the exhaust. When I let the clutch lever out the lower lever was hitting the rock and would move no further, thus not engaging the clutch. I pulled out my trusty Victorinox Swisstool and five minutes later I had a working clutch. I snapped a photo of the spot where this happened.

"There's a lesson here.", I pondered as I was finally able to feel a breeze again.

Some time later I came upon the start of the Dalton Highway.

This road is somewhat of a legend made famous by the show Ice Road Truckers. The legend was magnified in my mind by the seemingly countless riders I met along the way that told me, in essence, that I was crazy to ride this road. "Even with an adventure bike running knobby tires I wouldn't ride that road. It's the most hellish road on earth.", they would say.

I wondered what I was going to find. I imagined a road like the impassable trails I had followed in Missouri. I imagined stones the size of the ones on the firetrail in Telluride. I thought about the times I got my dirtbike stuck in two feet of watery mud. I had said to the Netjets pilot, "It's a slog if you have to get out a shovel.". I wondered how many times would I have to get the shovel out.

I also was interested to see what modifications had been done to the tractor trailers and RV's and other vehicles that drive this road to allow them to pass "the most hellish road on earth.".

Clearly I wasn't thinking it through very clearly.

I didn't have to wait long to see what it was like. Within 500 feet the pavement ended. "So much for it being paved to the Arctic Circle.", I thought.

"Heavy industrial traffic", it said. Great. I had heard of baseball sized gravel being kicked up and killing 10 riders at a time. Well, not really. I had heard people had gotten injured by baseball sized gravel being kicked up as tractor trailers passed. I was looking forward to seeing some of this gravel. "Baseball sized? How do they drive on that?".I would be disappointed. I got hit by a cherry sized piece of gravel once. It bounced off the leathers without ill effect.

The next clue I ignored, still being full enthralled by the legend of how difficult this road is supposed to be.

"50mph? These must be some World Rally Championship truck drivers.", I thought. 50mph on rutted wet mud roads? Are they kidding.

"This should be interesting."

I had read about the calcium chloride they use to bind gravel together. What I did not realize is it creates a surface that approximates pavement. It's a bit crumbly on top with some loose gravel and dust, but on the whole it's not as bad as riding your average farm dirt road. It's much harder and you can carry speed on it. The bike doesn't track quite as linearly as it does on pavement but the squirreliness is easy to deal with. Keeping up a speed of 50mph is no problem on this stuff.

It was early still and I only had 175 miles to go. I was making really good time but I was keeping the speed around the limit. I had that sense that conditions could change any any moment. I had heard the road north of Coldfoot is much worse than the road south of it.

The road continued on. The landscape was green and rolling. It didn't vary much however. Mile after mile it mostly looked the same. The quality of the road changed little in the first 50 miles or so.

I was beginning to think this was being too easy as I approached a section where they were working on the road. They were adding some gravel which was being graded. As had been described to me, they first put down a mound of the stuff and then run a grader over it. The mounds are pretty high and I would have been hard pressed to cross them with my bike. I think I could probably have done it but try it often enough and I would eventually fall over.

Then just as I was beginning to believe the stories of pavement were tall tales, paved sections appeared. This was not a good thing. The paved sections lulled you into a false sense of security. They would go from perfect pavement, to bouncy, jarring nightmarishly pothole filled sections one second to the next. But it was all still entirely manageable until ...

I was coming up a paved hill that had a sharp left hand sweeper up ahead. I was doing about 60mph. A tractor trailer throwing up alot of dust was coming down the hill towards the sweeper. I watched as the tractor and trailer slid laterally from the left lane into my lane as he came around the corner throwing up even more dust. He recovered as if he had done this 1000 times, but the meaning didn't dawn on me until too late.

DEEP GRAVEL!!!

I hit the corner doing about 50mph only to realize it was about 3" of uneven gravel. There were furrows and mounds of it in all kinds of haphazard patterns. I struggled to keep the bike going in more of less the right direction while shaving off speed. Just as I thought I was going to lose it I gained control of the bike and slipped and slid my way over the uneven terrain up the hill. It lasted less than 100 yards.

It wasn't that bad. It just caught me off guard. At 50mph it's undoable on my bike. At 25 to 30 it was just fine.

And therein lies the danger of the Dalton Highway. Conditions change instantaneously but it happens so infrequently that it easily catches you by surprise. It would be another 400 miles before I ran into another spot of deep gravel. It caught me by surprise too, but the outcome was the same. An elevated heart rate and increased vigilance.

I pondered how I was riding and thought how I should pay more attention. But, contrary to common wisdom, it's unwise to exert that kind of effort. Fatigue is the enemy. If you strain too much watching for particular hazards you become target fixated on them, miss other hazards and you waste a tremendous amount of energy in the process. "I've been riding like this for 35 years and it's served me well. I'll just continue and trust that I'll be able to handle what comes.". I am a very careful rider, but I am not over cautious. Surprises happen. I could have done the road at 15mph and the hazard would have been tractor trailers from behind, which, in my humble opinion, is much more dangerous.

As I pondered how easy the road was in comparison to what I had been told, I came across a dreaded "new wet calcium chloride" section. I had seen bikes covered in mud from top to bottom. I had heard stories of how this stuff clogs radiators and can stop wheels from spinning.

What I didn't realize was how sticky this stuff was. Within about 100 yards my bike already looked as bad as some of those riders I had seen. Then I understood. They too had only gone through a little bit of the stuff. It was a mud-like wet mixture about 2 or 3 inches deep. I had to keep the speed under 30mph and even then it would slip and slide as the tires tried to redirect me into every rut and fissure in the road. It was tricky riding. It also only lasted about a mile. My bike and I were covered in this thick cement like mud.

I now looked like I had been on the Dalton. "Well, that wasn't all that.", I thought.

Then I happened upon a bicyclist. She was also doing a charity ride. At first I understood her to say she was going from Prudhoe to Florida, but it looks like she's going to a place called Palmer. Her name is Caren Cioppa. Her charity page is at http://pages.teamintraining.org/wa/bigwilds10/habataku. I promised her I would link to it.

The lower Dalton runs through rolling hills covered with shrub like trees.

Every once in a great while you would see another rider, on a BMW GS of course. Actually, there was the occasional KLR and KTM. I saw no other sport touring bikes though.

I came upon the Yukon River Bridge. It's made of wood!

The Yukon River is a good sized river.

I stopped and got gas the Yukon River Camp. The worst surfaces I've ridden on in this trip have been the parking lots of the various "camps" along the way. Actually they matched what I feared the Dalton would be. Rutted. Irregular. Deep potholes.

In this part of the world you get a strange appreciation for fuel. You are keenly aware of it. I think it's in part due to the fact that fuel tanks are above ground but also because fuel is so rare here and running out is a real possibility. It takes a truly awe inspiring amount of fuel to enable modern life out here.

And it's expensive.

Another sight you don't see normally is planes parked by the road. This plane clearly uses the Dalton as a runway.

The Dalton Highway follows the Alaskan Pipeline all the way up to Prudhoe Bay.

As I mentioned the scenery between Fairbanks and Coldfoot Camp really doesn't change all that much.

Eventually it starts getting a bit hilly.

About 60 miles before you reach Coldfoot Camp, you cross the Arctic Circle. 18 years ago we had intended on reaching this point. We did a hell ride across the country with the intention of reaching this point on a tight schedule. We did between 750 and 950 miles a day for days on end. By the time I reached Washington State my health gave out and I had to withdraw from the ride. Duncan stayed behind with me. The other two went on to reach the Arctic Circle.

It was a strange reflective moment standing at the circle thinking about the intervening 18 years and everything that transpired; everything I sacrificed or lost.

I was standing there when a Suburban drove up and three women got out. They offered to take a photo for me.

I didn't get their names but my impression was it was a mother, daughter and friend trio. The mother wanted to have her photo taken on my bike. So I moved it around so it was at a better angle and helped her aboard. She seemed to get a kick out of it.

Their Suburban was covered in dust and mud.

They were really nice. The daughter took one look at me and then compassionately offered me a large bottle of water. "You must be hot." They offered me food as well. Also touchingly thoughtful. I didn't have the heart to tell them about the Illness and that I couldn't have sandwiches or that I was allergic to cherries. I was grateful for the water though.

After a little while two GS riders arrived, Rob and Wayne. As it would turn out, we would run into each other multiple times all the way up to Deadhorse. They are business partners who run a heating company. I told them "Too bad Anatoly doesn't ride. That's so cool of you guys to do together." Their business is apparently doing extremely well. At least somebody's is.

Slowly the scenery began to become more interesting.

I arrived at the "motel" in Camp Coldfoot in the early evening. The sun never set. I stayed at the Inn. It was basically temporary housing turned into a makeshift lodging facility. It was not quite as nice as the Deal's Gap resort, but it served it's purpose.

My bike wasn't too bad off. All in all the road from the beginning of the Dalton Highway up to Coldfoot camp did not live up to it's reputation.

I am currently in Deadhorse. I arrived around 4pm today. I have to get up at 6am tomorrow to make it to breakfast in time so I can go on the Prudhoe Bay tour. As a result I won't be able to finish up the Coldfoot to Deadhorse entry until after I get back to Fairbanks. There's no WIFI in Coldfoot.

Even all the way up to Deadhorse, the difficulty of this road has been so oversold as to be an outright exaggeration. The road itself is not difficult. I can see how it would be much more challenging in the rain, but even then my impression is, based on the wet sections I went through today, that it would still be entirely doable. There's always the risk that one might encounter the odd heap of construction gravel or tag the side of a rut the wrong way and go down. But nothing that I saw today in any way matched the kinds of horror stories that people had told me about.

So I spent quite some time thinking about where these stories come from. Experiences are, after all, subjective.

When I observe a behavior that I do not understand, instead of dismissing it out of a hand, I try very hard to imagine a set of circumstances in which I would exhibit the same behavior. I'm the one who looks at a homeless person and asks "what can happen to me today to cause me to be like him tomorrow". I always come up with plausible answers which keeps me humbler than most would suspect. This "the Dalton Highway is hell" scenario is no different.

The Dalton Highway is challenging in places, but not because it's difficult. There's nothing "difficult" about it. It's just long. It does require attention. Fatigue is the real problem. Hazards appear randomly after long periods of monotonous road conditions. Even I fell trap to lowering my guard after the 50th mile of perfect pavement or hardpack. Potholes in pavement can do serious damage. Some potholes can be a foot across and 8" deep. But potholes are relatively rare. Most of the pavement is very good.

The hardpack does tend of have a layer of light gravel and dust on it which causes your wheels to wander a bit. If you are not used to riding in the dirt or gravel this can be disconcerting. It is, however, not a problem. The muddy sections can be a bit challenging but are entirely doable, even on street tires. The wandering is much more pronounced and on the Michelin street tires I have, this is exaggerated. In addition, as your tires find the edges of ruts they tend to move in way that pitches the bike violently making you feel as if it's going to drop. However, there really isn't any need in my opinion to run knobby tires on this road. I think I could do this road in the same conditions as today on racing slicks. If it were raining I might change my opinion. And I may yet have the opportunity to.

So I thought long and hard about all these horror stories. Did those riders just have no experience? Two guys I talked to had been riding almost as long as I have. One said he had extensive hard core offroad experience.

Then I remember a Woman's pool match I watched on television some years ago. If I remember correctly, it was a championship match between the reigning champion and an unlikely upstart that had made her way to the finals. This was causing alot of commotion.

I enjoy the game of pool and it's one of the few competitions that I'll watch on the television when I get a chance.

It was also the only time an announcer has said something that made me pause and think.

It was the upstarts turn. She was making one jaw dropping shot after the next. Her shooting style was impressive and dramatic. She was pulling off shots that I could only do 1 in 10 times on my best night and she was doing them time and time again. But she would eventually miss a shot and the champion would have her turn.

In contrast she seemed only to do easy shots. Each shot was a straight line beginners shot like I could do 95 times out of a100. I didn't really think about it until the announcer said:

"Now that's the difference between championship material and the rest."

I thought he was commenting on the challenger and how good she was shooting.

"A champion makes her job easy intentionally. She plans ahead to make her life easy so she can reserve her best shots only when she needs them. In contrast, the challenger has to pull out her best shot each time and she'll eventually miss.".

Sure enough, she lost the match.

That comment has stuck with me. The Champion won because she put all her work in preparing for the shot, so that when it was done she was set up for the next easy shot.

I thought back to the comments the guys who said the Dalton was 'orrible made. Each one of them had a schedule. "I had to be up and back in two days.". Each went fast. "I was doing 70mph through most of it.".

And then it hit me. Each and every person who said the Dalton was a horrible road attempted to ride the Dalton on their own terms and on a tight schedule. They attempted to ride a partially improved road with random hazards the same way they ride a highway. They were going to ride this road pulling out their best shots at each corner and through each hazard.

They did not give this road the time or respect it needs to be done safely or well. They didn't make things easy for themselves.

While we worked on my boat, Lance once said "You have to give problems the time they need. If you try to force something quickly, bad things happen.".

I imagined not taking my time. I imagined having my self worth and identity tied up in how quickly I could ride up this road and back again. I imagined wanting to brag to my imaginary friends about how cool or tough I was that I could do the Dalton in a Paris-Dakar style.

And I think that is why I had a wonderful relatively peaceful ride and enjoyed the scenery and was unfazed by this road. Seriously, it's an easy road with some hazards that requires attention but is in no way difficult. I had no schedule. If things went badly I was willing to turn around. I was willing to camp. I was willing to push the bike through bad parts if need be. If it rained I was willing to let each section take all day, or longer. I was humbly willing to give the road it's due and as a result it was easy. Strangely, I had no ego tied up in this endeavor. I didn't need to go fast. I didn't need to do it quickly. But I also think that I have had the experience of taking vehicles, including my K100RS, through some truly difficult risky roads. So I did not approach the Dalton from a highway mentality. I approached it from an offroad travelling mentality and not a racing one.

What I enjoyed most, actually, was sitting in the cafes talking to other riders. I met Christopher, Greg and Mike in Coldfoot and had dinner with them. The next morning I happened to be up when they were leaving, because I couldn't sleep, and sat down and chatted with them for a while. Travelling is about stories, not miles or numbers.

For me it's about letting go the deterministic and letting chaos direct me. And I think therein lies another difference.

As a kid I was always fascinated by the game of pinball. Here you have a game where your inputs are so restricted. You have two flippers. The ball can do whatever chaotic thing it's going to do. If you attempt to control the ball deterministically, you lose. It won't do what you demand of it and instead will go down the chute every time. But if you let go. If you work with the game on it's terms knowing full well the that your inputs are limited to "influence", not "control", counterintuitively you can keep the ball in play for a long time.

It is similar thing when driving or riding off road vehicles or piloting a boat. It's less about control and more about influence. Once you let go the deterministic and embrace the chaotic with humility and patience you find you can enjoy them much more and be more successful than someone who attempts to force the machines, and thereby the road, to work on their terms. The latter tends to cause Bad Things to happen.

I have been thinking alot about the parallels between riding a motorcycle and human relationships. Yes, my mind actually does work like that. I believe I've begun to understand that when it comes to people, and especially those relationships most important to me, I do not do what I intuitively do when I ride or pilot a boat. Human relationships are not deterministic. They are chaotic. They have their own terms, just like the Dalton Highway. They are not difficult, but when forced Bad Things happen and they can appear difficult. I have always felts that if only I could teach better, influence better, control better I could be more good to those who I care about.

And in that, I believe I may have been making the same mistake that those unfortunate riders who try to force the Dalton make. I have not humbly embraced with patience my lack of control, my limited influence and just "let go" and accepted these relationships on their own terms. As a result Bad Things happened time and time again and I did not understand.

And for that, I am truly sorry.

Road Report Day 33 - The Alcan to Tok, Alaska

yml.nospamplease@nospam.yml.com — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 04:24:16 EST

I had wanted to make some mileage so I got up relatively early and had breakfast at the adjoining restaurant. My room was on the third floor so getting all my gear back down and on the bike was kind of a pain.

I was trying to make some miles so I didn't stop too often to snap photos. I did notice after a while that the landscape had once again change. Under a layer of vegetation it looked like sand.

I found this rather curious. I wonder if this sand was deposited as a result of the last ice age.

And, of course, there were more beautiful vistas of mountains and trees.

And yet more beautiful lakes.

And even more ...

And strange mountains ...

And due to budget cuts ...

I wonder if Kevin the Mounty needs to worry. :)

Actually, the officer who pulled me over for going to fast has been following the blog and sent me some nice messages through the Contact Yermo link. He said he liked the blog. Amazing. I've been floored at the positive feedback I've gotten about this blog. It makes it so that I want to continue trying to write.

I stopped for gas and lunch in a small town. I have forgotten the name of the place. It was 100 miles or so south of Beaver Creek. I was eating lunch when a guy on a GS rode up. I nodded when he came in and we got to talking.

His name is Gary Wallen. (This one I wrote down.) He had just done the trip up to Prudhoe bay and back again at speed. He had a schedule to keep and had been doing it at around 70mph. Damn that's fast. We talked for quite some time. I got the impression he did not enjoy the run up. At first he said "If I could talk you out of it I would" but after some more conversation he just said to be careful.

He asked me how it was that I was able to do this at such a young age. "I recently completely a rather difficult real-estate transaction." was my answer. He asked why I was doing it so we got into the Nightmare a bit. I told him that I was out here for no particular reason at all. Deadhorse is not a destination, it's an excuse for a journey. My destination is each point along the way. He was waiting for the friends he was travelling with to show up. When I told him I was going very slowly he said "Good for you.".

He went on to say, "You know, for me, it's the autumn of my life. For years I was concerned about raising a family, about work. At this age health becomes an issue. After a few heart attacks ..." and then his friends arrived and he abruptly ended the conversation and left. Too bad. I would like to have heard what he would have said.

Before he left he gave me his contact info. He has a blog about his trip over at blogspot.

I've encountered many people who are envious of this trip of mine. It's primarily the older guys, The ones who are my age and older who get it. The younger ones tend to still be caught up in numbers. In miles.

I hope to hear from Gary again. It was interesting talking to him. He thought the way I was going to do Deadhorse was the right way. Four days. One day to Coldfoot. One Day to Deadhorse. Repeat process on the way back. "The road is miserable", I've heard so often. It's over 200 miles of dirt, mud and rock.

It could be interesting.

I rode on. More beauty.

I came upon an impressive bridge over some kind of river/wash. There was a dirt road down to the water. I stopped to view the scene. The horseflies were oppressive.

I tried my hand at a little more artistic photography. Small vs large.

A couple in a Toyota Fourrunner or similar vehicle showed up and followed the trail down to the water. They got out of the track and I offered, as I usually do, to take a photo of the two of them. They weren't interested so I asked them if they would mind taking one of me.

They had taken their brand new 4x4 up to Prudhoe Bay and back again. They describe the Calcium Chloride and how it bound to their wheels so tightly it caused them to be out of balance. They ended up chipping away at the stuff.

Steve and Phyllis. Steve contacted me here and suggested I take photos of the guardrails at Atigun pass.

"No tagging guard rails.", she said. I have to remember that.

I rode on and encountered even more beautiful lakes.

The 100 miles or so before Beaver Creek are supposed to be Bad(tm). I was told by a number of people just how bad the road is. "Terrible!", one person said. My four adventure riding friends were told not to go on the road because it was so bad.

Hogwash.

It was a cakewalk. Yea, there were sections where the frost heaves were large enough that you could catch air if you went too fast. There were places where the road had sunken and deformed.

It's a bit late. I was going to write a treatise on how experts make choices that make their jobs easier on them. I was going to describe a pool match between a master pool player and an upstart. The announcer saying, after the upstart had made a serious of just incredible shots, "this is the difference between a good pool player and a great one. The good one brings out her best shot each and every time, and eventually misses losing the game. The great one makes her own life easy and sets herself up to make the shot.".

If you ride to make it easy on yourself, the Alcan is an easy road. But you do have to pay attention and it is tiring. There are places, rare places, on this road where if you are not paying attention you could easily crash.

In places on the Alcan it's just a mud road.

Along this section I came across what I believe is a coyote. At first I thought it was injured. It just lay there. It looked at me but didn't move much.

But then it got up and, very doglike, just walked over to me.

I assume someone probably fed it and it's started associating humans with food. I left before it got too close.

After some more miles I arrived at the Alaska border!

Yermo at Alaska. Did you know Alaska has it's own time zone? Me neither.

A couple on a Harley took this shot for me.

We had been passing each other all day long. I would stop at a rest stop and they would pass. Eventually I would catch up and pass them. This had been going on all day long.

I was already at the sign when they showed up. In the Yukon and Alaska pavement is rare in parking lots. This area around the sign was on a slope and when he put his foot down he lost footing on some gravel and his Harley dresser went down. I ran over to help. Together with alot of effort we managed the right the bike. A few pieces were a bit bent but the bike seemed to be ok.

They took it all in stride. Nice people. They too were intent on making it up to Deadhorse. On a Harley. With a trailer. Duncan would be envious.

The landscape in Alaska is much as it was in the Yukon.

There was construction and yet another pilot vehicle construction zone. I saw this sticker.

One thing I haven't commented on is the dust. The roads here are dusty. Most parking lots are not paved. Tractor trailers kick up alot of dust.

And so the bike is covered in dust. I expect it'll be alot worse on the Dalton.