Five Corners On A Connie or This Can't Be Happening! by Jack Gustafson My first ride on a motorcycle was back in '60, when a friend foolishly offered me the use of his pristine '58 XLCH. Prior to that I'd never been on a motorcycle, so he had to explain the shift pattern, brake and clutch controls, and how to kick it over without getting launched myself. Supremely confident, I took off down the highway in my low cut oxfords, short-sleeved shirt, and gloveless hands. Helmet? Heck, only racecar drivers wore those. Within 20 minutes I ran across another friend who was riding his brand new Sportster, and the race was on. Fortunately, I lived through that day and have never looked back. But in all the ensuing years I have heard, and believed, the old saying that there are two kinds of riders - those who have fallen, and those who are going to fall. Now, after 42 years of staying upright, it was my turn. What trauma! The unbelievable had occurred! It didn't help that I'd been riding along without so much as a wiggle for the past few miles in the snow, and was getting a little cocky. I should have remembered the verse in Proverbs that reads "Pride goeth before a fall…". Coming to a mild upgrade, and finding myself slowing down as I started the ascent, I eased on a little throttle. Next thing I knew, the back end started fishtailing and, overcorrecting and before I could react properly to catch it, we were down on the right side and sliding. Five Corners On A Connie Okay, for those of you who are real nit pickers, it wasn't really a full five corners. That would require hitting Deadhorse, aka Prudhoe Bay, to make it a true, 100% five corners. But Tok, Alaska was close enough for me, especially in early April. Have you ever heard the lines of the song that go "When it's springtime in Alaska, it's forty below"? Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but not much. And it can get mighty nasty up in the Brooks Range that time of year. So I wimped out, and turned south as soon as the roads allowed. This whole thing started when I decided to make the annual LD Riders Crawfish Boil hosted by Shane Smith in McComb, Mississippi. There are many riders east of the Mississippi whom I had met only via e-mail, and now there would be the opportunity to put faces with names, and to get to know them a bit better. Not long after making the decision to catch "Da Boil", Kerry Perkins of the COG List announced the "First Annual Below Sea Level Ride" to be held at Death Valley the weekend before the Boil. By starting my ride a few days earlier, I could do both, so plans were adjusted accordingly. Within a few more days, it hit me! I'd be near the southwest corner of the U.S. at Death Valley, and not very far from the southeast corner when at McComb, MS. By taking a slight detour coming back home, just a couple thousand extra miles, I could do a Four Corners Tour while riding around the country. So I started checking into that option, and found that it would make a nice little diversion, as well as give me an excuse to see some new places. From preliminary travel plans, it looked like I'd be riding a maximum of 15,000 miles "IF" I rode all the way back home. Some thought was also given to leaving the bike with friends somewhere in the Pacific Northwet and flying home as an alternative. Now, let me assure you that I was still exhibiting some semblance of sanity at that time, as my plan at this juncture was to build a shipping pallet, strap the Concours to it, then ship it south by truck a couple of weeks before my planned departure from the Seattle area. But when you reach a certain age, sanity has a way of slipping out of one's grasp, and is replaced by… well, INsanity. As D-Day approached, I began watching the weather along the Alaska Highway (still known affectionately as "The Alcan" by many of us old-timers) and was pleased to see that it was staying clear and cold. This meant that there would be mostly bare asphalt all the way down into British Columbia. Spring was also approaching, however, and that meant almost certain changes in the weather, with snow sure to be falling somewhere along my route. Thus the vigil began. The closer to the date I'd chosen as my "final decision" day, the more I felt that I could ride the bike down to the South 48, and kept hoping the weather would hold. From riding in the fall, I knew I could probably handle temperatures down to zero or so, and figured that with the longer days of spring, I could ride for 10 or 12 hours each day, and when the sun went down and it started getting cold, I could get a room at a lodge or motel along the way. The only problem I foresaw would be starting Annie after leaving her sitting outside overnight. But confident that locals would have the means to get any type vehicle warmed up enough to start after a cold night, that potential problem was set aside as being a non-issue. Giving up the Aerostich Roadcrafter and switching to a two-piece snowmobile suit provided me with better protection from low temperatures, although scarcely any from asphalt burns and bruises. However, it's hard to be a safe rider when you're numb from the cold, so that's what I wear come below freezing weather. With the lightly insulated, but windproof, snowsuit, there's no need for electrically heated garments until the thermometer drops below 20°F, or even colder once I'm acclimated. Meanwhile, annual maintenance was underway on "Alcan Annie", along with a few upgrades that I thought would make the trip easier and safer. From the COGList I'd learned that several list members had added the Audiovox cruise control, so one was picked up in Anchorage and plans were made to install it. Driving lights would be a welcome addition in the South 48, where it gets dark at night during the summer months (don't know why y'all haven't figured out that it's better the way we do it in Alaska - stays light when it's warm enough to ride, gets dark when you have to put the bike away). And then the annual new windshield, new bulbs all the way 'round, and new tires and wheel bearings, of course. Also from the COGList, I'd learned about extenders that would provide a slightly larger envelope of somewhat calm air behind the fairing, so those were added to the bike for this trip, along with stuffing a couple of vents with foam pipe insulation - a tip I got from Doug Grosjean's webpage. Now it was getting down to the wire, and I had yet to build the pallet or contact a trucker who might haul the Connie south for me. In addition, I realized that there was a part of me that really wanted to ride down the Alcan, and my procrastination was doing the job of forcing me to ride Outside, and I was happy about it. The Alcan remains one of my favorite rides, and I didn't want to miss a chance to do it again. Some might think I'd learn, but those who know me well realize that I never will. If there are three weeks worth of work to do on the bike, I'll start ordering parts four weeks before my trip is to start. That usually leaves me finishing the last bolt tightening just minutes before I pull out of the driveway. This year was no different. Thursday I browbeat some poor, unsuspecting souls into helping me get the bike out of the basement shop. To be a little ahead of my starting point last year, I cranked up the engine to make sure it would run. Warmed it up for a few minutes, then shut it off and went back to tying up loose ends. Friday was spent sorting and packing, revamping the lists I'd sweated over last year after my return from California. Saturday was given over to cleaning up the shop, putting tools and leftover parts away, and then little incidentals like installing the windshield, bungeeing the extra clothing on the top of the Givi, and trying to find room for the computer hard drive I was delivering to a friend on my way out of state. Saturday should have been a breeze, but I kept finding little things I'd put off until the last minute - and now the last minutes were upon me. Finally, at 6:30 PM, enough was enough, and if it wasn't done by now, it didn't need to get done. Besides, I'd tried to give myself a cushion in case the weather turned bad along the way, and I had to lay over for a day. That cushion was gone, and I was going to get to Seattle late if I didn't get moving. Before I go any further, let me make it clear that I do NOT consider myself a "tough" motorcyclist. Rather, just an old geezer who has spent too many winters in Alaska. The reason I felt confident in heading south on the Alcan Highway in early April - still winter this far north - is that I am pretty acclimated to the cooler temperatures after having just survived another winter in which anything above -40° is considered mild weather. It is my opinion that anyone, regardless what area of the world they call home, can become acclimated to these temperatures and make the same ride I did, if they care to. The motorcycle was of more concern to me, as factory R & D is not usually concerned with operation of these two-wheeled vehicles under sub-Arctic conditions. To help prepare the bike, I had synthetic lubricants everywhere I could use them: The engine/transmission, front forks, and rear shock all contained 5W-40 Mobil Delvac 1, the final drive carried 75W-90 Mobil 1 gear lube. The engine cooling system was filled with my usual mix of 60% anti-freeze and 40% distilled water - good to over 50 below. The speedometer cable and all grease zerks were lubed with Mobil low-temp synthetic grease. Being synthetics, the lubricants would also offer superior protection in the hot temperatures I was anticipating later in the ride. Saturday, April 6, 2002 18:40 Glennallen, Alaska Someone asked me to give details as to what sort of gear I had on; what I did to keep warm. In answer to that request, here it is, from the skin out: Long-sleeved cotton tee shirt and LD Comfort undershorts, Widder System II electric vest with arm chaps and Widder leg chaps - connected to a Widder Electronic controller that I have velcroed to the outside of my tank bag, quilted thinsulate pants and jacket, wool shirt and Draggin' Jeans, Chill Factor snowmobile bib pants and jacket, relatively thin knee-high wool Nordic skiing socks, Sidi On-Road Sympatex boots with a sheepskin liner in the sole, Widder electric gloves, Nolan N-100 helmet. Just in case it got really cold, I also carried a polar fleece balaclava that goes under my helmet and well down over my chest and the back of my neck. The gloves and heated handgrips are connected to a Warm 'n Safe electronic controller so I can warm my oft-frostbitten hands separately from the rest of my body. You may notice that none of my cold weather gear is modern high tech - no polypropylene undergarments or socks. Most of what I have is stuff I've been wearing for many years, and has kept me from freezing to death so far. Besides, I'm a cheapskate and will keep wearing it until it's worn out. Since this trip, though, I've started checking out clothing that might be a trifle better suited to this type riding and will probably be adding some of that to my wardrobe in the near future. To make it down the ice-filled side street to the highway I'd left my tires underinflated for a little more traction. Thus, departing home, my business partner followed me to the gas station with a cylinder of dry nitrogen so I could deflate, then reinflate my tires with that gas, as it changes pressure less than plain air with temperature changes, and I figured I'd be going through some pretty extreme changes (little did I know). Finally fueled up, zipped up, aired up, and plugged in - onto the highway at 19:27 with one stop scheduled before I got to the Alcan at Tok. With the days getting longer now that the vernal equinox had come and gone, it was still quite light as I headed north. Light enough that when I made my stop 80 miles later, I could see snow clouds hanging in the valley ahead of me. At my request, my friend phoned a neighbor about 15 miles up the road to see if it was snowing there. All clear - so away I went. Temperatures so far not bad - around +20°F - no need to turn the Widders on yet, but the heated grips and Widder gloves felt good, and were keeping my fingers toasty. After fueling in Tok (and getting a strange glance from the station attendant) the direction became generally southeast for the next 1300 miles or so as I headed for Milepost 0 of the Alcan at Dawson Creek, British Columbia. It's 93 miles from Tok to the Yukon line, and the trip was getting off to a pleasant start. Temperatures were still above zero, although getting closer to the mark as I neared U. S. Customs at the border. When it hit +10°F, I turned the Widders on, but only on the lowest setting. Having mounted a pair of Hella driving lights on one of Larry Buck's mounts just before leaving, I spent some time getting them adjusted to throw light where it would do the most good. It was immediately obvious that they were a good investment, as I was able to see well enough to keep my speed up even though I was in moose country. Riding at night on a two-lane road with little traffic is, to me, a pleasant experience. It was clear and crisp, and when I made a stop to tinker with the lights, or just to get off and walk around a bit, a glance skyward would reveal a nearly-solid canopy of stars, twinkling by the zillions. The only other place where I've seen night skies nearly as clear was in the Four Corners area in Arizona. The Northern Lights were also visible that night, although very faint, but the stars gave off enough light to walk around easily without artificial illumination - one of the many reasons I love living in Alaska despite the extreme cold we sometimes have to endure. Preparing for this trip, and the attendant heavy traffic that was expected to be found in various cities along the way, I'd installed a pair of Saeng Quick-Scan mirrors on the windshield. Nearing the border, with the temperature down around 5 above, I hit a series of sharp bumps in the pavement and the mirrors, their adhesive too stiff from the cold to hang on any more, fell off and dangled by the opposite side tether until I could stop and remove them. Into the side bag they went. Oh well, won't need them on the Alcan, I'm sure. [Note: After getting home and reporting the problem to Saeng, they sent me two screws to use to mount the mirrors through holes in the windshield in the future. Good service from the people so far as I'm concerned.] U. S. Customs being the last warm haven on my home side of the border, I took advantage of their comfortable rest rooms and made sure I was properly dressed for the night ahead. Leaving there, and making the mild descent to the actual boundary line between the U. S. and Canada, I realized belatedly that I was riding on solid ice. Fortunately, it had been sanded lightly and neither tire slipped at all. Being that I'd been up long hours getting ready for the trip for the past few days, and was a little tired, I opted to stop for the night at Beaver Creek, 21 miles inside the Yukon, and then make a hard push the next day to get off the Alcan. So at 1:00 AM Yukon time I checked into the lodge at MP (Milepost) 1202 for a good night's rest. Sunday, April 7, 2002 11:00 Beaver Creek, Yukon Territory, Canada After a hearty breakfast, back on the road, with the temperature around 25°F in the shade, and freshly fallen snow melting where the sun was hitting it. All in all, a beautiful day to be traveling. Once again heading southeast, I soon noticed a heavy gray snow cloud in the valley ahead of me. It seemed to be supported by the peaks of mountains on either side of the highway, and snow curtains could be seen draping themselves down to ground level. Sure enough, about 12 miles from Beaver Creek I found the first of the fresh snow on the pavement. Fortunately, the sun was hitting it with warm rays, and in the vehicle tracks there could be found a dab of wet pavement every foot or so. Thus, with speed reduced and cheeks firmly grasping the seat cover, I continued on to see how much worse it would get. At the 18-mile mark I crossed the bridge labeled "Dry Creek #2" and then started up a mild grade at about 35 mph. Now for some reason I'd convinced myself, with no compelling evidence to back up the notion, that I'd be riding in snow for the next 50 or 60 miles. With that mindset, I began climbing this little incline thinking that I might just as well find out how well I could handle the deeper snow that I was sure I'd be riding in for the next hour or two. That's how I took my first ever (but not last) spill, and found myself sliding along next to my Concours, wondering how far I'd slide before coming to a stop. After the shock of going down, hearing the sound of plastic and metal sliding over the snow-slicked pavement, and then the realization that my travels had come to a standstill, I was enduring a mixture of disappointment and disbelief that had me somewhat dazed for a few seconds. Crawling over to Annie as she lay on her side, calmly idling away, I hit the kill switch and then turned off the key. For what seemed like several minutes, I sat there in the snow, surveying the wreckage. As it slid along the highway, the bike had slowly turned end-for-end and was now facing back down the hill. Back that way was the Givi top case, which had broken the locking tab off the base plate. Up the hill, in the direction we'd been traveling, was the right side bag, lacking a chunk of the top rear inside corner. The right side Baker Air Wing was laying off to the side, and anonymous small bits and pieces were scattered around like kernels of corn in a chicken pen. Not sure how long I spent just looking at the mess, and thinking that here, less than 300 miles into the riding season, I was stopped cold, unable to continue on this trip that I'd spent countless hours planning, anticipating, and working toward. But even before I got Annie back up on two wheels, the realization came that I didn't have to quit. Just the month before I had succeeded in mounting full Givi luggage on my trusty old Suzuki GS1100G, and the tires were at least good enough to get me to Seattle before I'd have to replace them. I could get the Connie hauled back to Beaver Creek, then hitch a ride home to Glennallen and get the Suzi. All that would be necessary after that would be to transfer my load from the Concours to the Suzuki and be on my way again. With luck, I'd lose no more than a day. With that positive thought in mind, I went to work getting back on the road. First, of course, it would be necessary to get Annie back on her feet. Off with the tank bag to make it a little lighter. Down with the side stand so I wouldn't find her falling onto the opposite side once I had her up again. Then back up to the bike, get a good hold, find some footing in the snow (the Sidi On-Roads are GOOD!), and HEAVE! Hmmm. The first foot went all right, but someone must have dropped some extra weight on it while my back was turned, as that was about as far as it wanted to come up. Okay, a little more preparation to give me time to think about what I was doing. Clean the snow away from the tires so they don't slip sideways as I'm lifting. Dig down to pavement a little better where my feet are placed so I can put all my effort into lifting. Find a good handhold on the auxiliary fuel cell for better leverage. Let's try this again. Trying to remember everything I've learned about lifting a fallen bike, I concentrate on keeping it moving once it starts, and this time it came all the way up, then over gently onto the side stand. Wow! It still looks like a Concours now that it's vertical again. The windshield is hanging by one screw, but I have enough extras (nylon, so they break off and save the windshield - and me) to replace the missing ones. The right side damage is now visible and I take stock. My right driving light is history by the looks of it. Larry Buck's driving light mount is well made, but it isn't designed to be a roll bar, and has been re-arranged by the drop. The right mirror is bent back as it is designed to be when subjected to this mistreatment, but is unscathed otherwise. The right hand antler is broken halfway up the vertical leg of the "L" and the side bag won't stay attached. Doesn't matter, as the bag itself is too damaged to hang on the antler anyway. To get myself moving in the right direction, I tackle the easiest things first. Dig out the screws for the windshield and remount it. Now Annie is starting to look rideable once more. The tank bag goes back on. I put the tail trunk onto its base, and wonder how I can fasten it so it won't come off. I'm starting to get the idea that this isn't as bad as I'd feared. Maybe I can even continue. No fluids on the ground aside from a little gas that leaked out of the fuel cell, and I mentally redesign the vent to prevent that in case of future drops. Up to this time I hadn't even considered the possibility of personal injury, but now I examine that aspect. There's a little sore spot on my right elbow where I landed initially, and a tiny matching tear in my jacket sleeve to mark the location. One other little tear on my pants leg, but no other marks or soreness. At this time I had the presence of mind (barely) to shoot a quick photo of the GPS, giving time, location, and average speed and distance to this point. The temperature is up to about freezing now, and the snow cloud has moved on, leaving me in bright sunlight. It's far too warm for the snowsuit, so off it comes as I get down to business. Shortly after I first got up on my feet a car zoomed past. The driver appeared to be an older lady, and I didn't blame her for continuing on down the road. She couldn't have helped much anyway. Then there were some northbound trucks, but they couldn't have seen me until they dropped over the hill and were headed downgrade, so stopping on the slick surface wasn't even an option for them. I'm sure they passed the word on to southbound drivers via CB so someone would stop soon. Sure enough, in a few minutes a pickup pulled in ahead of me and the driver came back to see if he could help. By that time I had things pretty well under control, but he had an unused strap with him that he offered, and it proved to be just what I needed to hold the tail trunk on for the next 3000 miles. Next was an empty truck heading back south for another load of travel trailers. He stopped to see if there was anything he could do, but without a way of hoisting the bike up onto his trailer, there wasn't much of any way he could help. When he left, I noticed that he was never able to get over about 10 mph all the way up the hill. Maybe that was steeper and slicker than I'd estimated. (It was. With everything white it is difficult to judge an incline like that. Going back that way in June I stopped at the top of the previous hill to take a photo and realized that the one on which I had fallen was much steeper than it had looked on that ill-fated day.) In previous trips I've sometimes found it necessary to temporarily carry some of my gear on top of the tail trunk, and for that reason carry a small cargo net made for the back of station wagons. A few straps from HelenTwoWheels are always along "just in case", as well as a couple of bungee nets. All these items came into play in the next few minutes as I tried to reassemble the broken side bag, and transferred some of the more vulnerable articles to the opposite side. Two hours after falling, Annie was tied together and ready to continue the trip. The pieces of driving light were in one of the side bags, the tail trunk was strapped on, the windshield was as good as new, and it was warmer now so snow was beginning to melt a little again. Airing the tires down - the front to 28 psi and the rear to 30 psi, I felt confident we could make it to the top of the hill and would decide my course of action based on what was found there. Knowing I didn't want to experience a second fall, I kept the bike in first gear with my feet sliding along, ready to catch it, until near the top of the hill. Once on level pavement again, where the sun's rays had been able to do their work, I found more wet pavement, and despite my caution and concern soon found myself flying along at the ground-gaining speed of 35 mph. To my chagrin, within five miles I found the pavement to be nearly clear and only damp. Still a little leery of how my bandaging attempts would hold together, I held the speed down for a while. But when I got across the White River and hit the straight, smooth pavement in that stretch, I decided it was time to test my workmanship. Watching closely in the mirrors for any sign that my load wanted to part company, I eased the speedo on up to 60. With everything looking good, I slowed back down to a more sedate pace, pleased with the way things were looking. About 65 miles down the road I stopped at Kluane Wilderness Village, a combination gas station/restaurant/repair shop/motel/ convenience store/whatever-else- you-might-need, like many along the northern Alcan, to buy some lightweight rope or cord. The only thing available was some 5/8" diameter polypropylene rope, in bright yellow. There are times you have to take what you can get, and this was one of those times. The rope was run over the mirrors and behind the windshield to hold the driving lights up, as they had been loosened by the fall, followed by the washboard gravel, and the mount was banging against the top of the fender. With the bike and load solidly fastened together once more, it was time to start making up for lost time. I'd had a meeting set up in Whitehorse with a fellow who was going to help man the checkpoint for the '02 Rendezvous and I had yet to see him face to face. That made it important that I get there before too late at night. With the tires deflated a bit, I didn't want to get too wild in the corners, but after stopping and checking them several times for heat, and carefully exploring their behavior, I felt confident in picking the speed up a few notches. As a result, I arrived in Whitehorse around 8:00 PM local time, and we were able to get together over a late dinner. At my request, Mike had brought along a partial roll of duct tape he had laying around the house, and my thoughts were becoming more positive all the time. After saying our good-byes, it was off to a motel for me for a good night's sleep, something I have never done before when riding down the Alcan. Seems the day had taken a bit out of me, and it was time to get a new start the next morning. Monday, April 8, 2002 Whitehorse, Yukon Territory, Canada It feels good to sleep in. When traveling like this, I let my body dictate the hours of rest, knowing that when I awaken naturally I'll be refreshed and ready to put in a long day. Thus it was that I barely made it out of the motel room by the 11:00 AM checkout time. The temperature had dropped to -22° C overnight according to the TV weather report, and I didn't mind letting the sun get a little head start before I went out and wiped the frost off the seat. By the time I got to the Petro Canada station 5 miles south of town, my digital thermometer was showing 18°F above, and it felt good. After topping off the main tank and the aux. fuel cell, I headed for a restaurant and some breakfast. Entering the dining room I got a few strange looks (not the last time this would happen) and then sat down and enjoyed what, to me, is the most important meal of the day. About 12:25 I headed out to the bike, and got ready to see what the rest of the Alcan looked like this early in spring. The previous night, in the motel room, I had emptied both side bags and spent almost an hour duct taping the right one back together to some degree of structural integrity. Along with straps to the passenger grab handle to help support the weight, there were straps fore and aft keeping it in place, so everything was going to stay intact, regardless of my speed today. And speed was on the menu, of a certainty. There were people in Seattle expecting me, and I wouldn't be late if I could help it. The weather was definitely a factor yet, as there were still almost 2000 miles to go, and every kind of weather possible in those miles. But I was southbound now, and it had to get warmer, right? Was I in for a surprise! From then on, it became a case of "sit there, twist that". The fuel cell was a blessing, as I was able to concentrate on making time without having to plan my fuel stops for stations that would be open. As I cruised south of Whitehorse, I was once again impressed with the improvements in the Alcan over the past 10 years. While the pavement suffers the normal seasonal damage from frost heaving, it still is in very good condition compared to what I find in many parts of my home state. In seemingly no time at all I'm approaching the small, lakeside village of Teslin. Crossing the Nisutlin River Bridge at the south boundary of Teslin, I was reminded why steel grate bridge decks are unpopular with motorcyclists. This is the longest such span on the Alcan, and I was glad to now have it behind me. Farther south, Rancheria was still closed as I rode by, but it looked as though someone had started to plow the deep snow out of the driveway. Maybe it would be open when I came back through later, headed north. Then it was Watson Lake, 274 miles from breakfast (and also the warmest temperature I saw that day at +33° F), and next fuel for bike and rider at Liard Hot Springs, so I'd be able to make Fort Nelson in case everything between the two was closed down when I went through. A few miles north of Liard Hot Springs, I started noticing an abundance of hoof prints in the snow along the shoulders, and a general destruction of the nearby flora. It was obvious that a good-sized herd of bison had been in the area recently. Caused me to be extra diligent in my roadside scan. When Trapper Ray's lodge showed up alongside the highway, it was a welcome sight. While I was eating at Liard, a young trucker mentioned that the highway had been nearly impassable from Fort St. John to Pink Mountain when he'd come through the morning before, and it had continued snowing heavily for most of the day, from what he'd heard later. He asked me how far I was intending to go that night, and I answered that I didn't intend stopping before Dawson Creek (still another 478 miles to the south) if I could get through. Once again I got that look that said "You ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer, are you buddy?" With his warning in mind, I figured I'd best hit the road and see what it looked like from the seat of a Concours. After Liard Hot Springs it's 195 miles to Fort Nelson. Fortunately, most of the bison were in the area just before I'd gotten to Liard, and I'd only have to watch for moose, elk, caribou, sheep and deer for the rest of the ride. While the highway was, for the most part, clear and dry, parking lots and gas stations were not. Up here in the semi- wilderness a gas station might consist of nothing more than a small cabin with one, two, or three pumps out front. No paved apron, no canopy overhead. And after a winter's worth of snowfall being packed down, then warmed by the springtime sun during the day and refrozen each night, they become two to six inches of rutted, pot-holed ice, that's a real challenge when you're on a bike. Having been down once, I felt no compulsion to show off my dubious riding skills, and paddled the bike up to the pump at nearly every stop. Another reason to be glad I had the auxiliary fuel cell, as it meant fewer such stops to contend with. Now, with it being the time to travel again, by carefully maneuvering the Concours from its parking spot in front of the lodge, we got back onto the pavement and headed southeast once more. Shortly after pulling out from Trapper Ray's at Liard, the sun dropped over the mountains and it began to get dark. As it was a crystal clear night, I knew it would be getting pretty chilly. Parking briefly in a gravel pullout, I donned my Widder vest with arm chaps, put on the Widder gloves and plugged them in, and prepared for night. As the temperature was still ten degrees or so above zero (F), I didn't think I would need the leg chaps or my balaclava. After all, I was heading south, where it would be warmer. Right! Something that had never occurred to me while I was packing my gear, nor had it while the sun was up and the temperatures were hovering just below the freezing point, was that the freezable liquids in my luggage could do just that - turn to solids! The realization came to me after the sun had gone down and the temperature started dropping. Too late now to do anything about it, just have to hope things didn't break, although all liquid containers in my luggage are, themselves, packed in turn within zip-lock bags - just in case. The Alcan winds, twists, and turns, plays roller coaster for a while, and then teases you with a few miles of straight or gently curving, beautiful pavement for a while before it takes you back in time to the twisting, turning, rolling highway it started as some 60 years ago. It won't let you get bored. As I continued along I mentally tracked my progress, comparing what I was seeing with that which I had seen before. You can travel the Alcan week after week, the year around, and it will never appear the same twice. So it became a game to try and recall exactly what this or that spot had looked like in past trips, and what would be coming up next. This sort of mental activity I find helps to keep me alert, and I definitely didn't want to succumb to inattentiveness this night. Even so, a little later in the evening I was surprised to find myself almost at the top of Steamboat hill before I was aware of it. Twenty years ago there would have been no mistaking the location due to its sharp turns and steep grades, but now it had been tamed to just another climb and descent. Interrupting the solitude of that wilderness highway are places like Muncho Lake, with its assortment of lodges, many still shut down for the winter when I rode through, then Toad River with its abundant elk in the neighborhood, Summit (the highest point on the Alcan at 4250 feet elevation), Steamboat, and finally Fort Nelson. Arriving at my usual fueling stop, the Blue Bell Inn, restaurant, gas station, laundromat, convenience store, etc., I got fueled up just before they closed at midnight. Going inside to pay and grab some snacks in case I had to spend the night alongside the road, the attendant volunteered that I was the first motorcyclist through this year. Guess I could understand that, as most have better sense than I was displaying. Having no reason to stick around, and the only cold parts on my body being my feet, it was on down the road again. Tuesday, April 9, 2002 Alaska Highway, just south of Fort Nelson, B.C., Canada Fort Nelson is only 283 miles from Dawson Creek, and Fort St. John is 47 miles closer than Dawson Creek. But, that 283 miles can seem pretty far at times, and this night was one of those times. My feet were the only parts of my body that were feeling really cold so far, but living here in Alaska, I'm no stranger to cold tootsies. On occasion I would wiggle my toes to make certain I still had feeling in them, and then grin and bear it. And grin I did. Despite the less than perfect motorcycling conditions, I was having fun. The thought that I could stop and don the Widder leg chaps to help keep my lower extremities warmer came to me, but the realization that I'd have to strip down to my LD Comfort undershorts to accomplish that feat dissuaded me. I knew I could stop, get off, and walk around for a bit to thaw out if it became necessary. In addition to watching for animals that fully expected to have the night to themselves, there was the need to be especially careful on every curve, REALLY careful on curves on hills, because of all the sand that had been spread over the recent snowfalls and ice. That concern kept forward progress to less than the desired quantity. Being that I was down to one driving light, I aimed that one right down the center of the road so it would reach out a little past the high beam. It still helped considerably. Having but one driving light was proving to be a blessing also, in a way. Using 55 watts less than my first night on the road, I was able to turn my heated clothing up higher without overtaxing the alternator - to a point. Four hundred watts can be spread only so thin. Keeping an eye on the voltmeter's glowing little red eye, it became apparent that to keep the electrical system happy, the engine needed to be spinning at around 4,000 rpm or more. This meant dropping occasionally down to fifth gear, and a few times to fourth, or even third. But that was a better choice than keeping the bike's speed up, as falling again was not considered an option, especially under these conditions on this lonely stretch of road. As I rode, I kept an eye on the thermometer, glowing there on the shelf as though daring me to continue in the face of its declining readings. And while I rode, I made comparisons with the temperatures I'd just ridden in back in Alaska, where the lowest reading I saw was 3°F above. Now I was watching the numbers drop that low again… then even lower. The appearance of the zero was momentous, then it rose, along with the elevation, to a few degrees above, only to descend further as the road dropped into a temperature inversion. Down to -9°F, now back up to +12°F, then down once more to minus 9°F and up… no, down even farther, this time to -11°F. For miles it went that way, up and down, up and down. As anyone who has done much riding on a motorcycle can attest, even a one-degree change is immediately noticeable. Thus I was able to determine that my little digital thermometer had about an eight second lag time before displaying the drop or rise in temperature that I was able to immediately sense as I passed through it. Crossing the Buckinghorse River at MP 173 I felt the most severe drop in temperature that I'd experienced so far. Sure enough, the numbers soon indicated -15° F. In a mile or so the road climbed out of the valley and the temperature climbed back up to near zero. But my elation was short lived, as the drop into the channel of the Beatton River followed in about half an hour. This time I saw the -15°F displayed even before the bridge, and just as I was crossing it, felt a sharp drop in the temperature. My estimate was that it dropped another 3 degrees before the thermometer could react and, thankfully, the road started climbing right away so the coldest spot was left behind in short order. Just after crossing Beatton River, Mae's Kitchen appears on the east side of the highway, and I couldn't help glancing over to see if there was any sign of life. At this point it wouldn't have taken much to lure me into a warm room and a comfortable bed. In the past I've noted that my metabolism slows down around 0'dark- thirty and I become more susceptible to the cold, so I was starting to feel the effects of the cool night air. I'll be the first to admit that I would have preferred the temperature to be 20 degrees warmer, but at least I was riding after 5 months of enforced idleness, and life was good. Between Fort Nelson and Fort St. John, a distance of some 240 miles, I met fewer than 10 vehicles, nearly all of them semi's; tankers hauling fuel north from the refineries further south. As a form of entertainment, I imagined the thoughts going through the minds of the drivers as they met this two-wheeled anomaly appearing out of the dark, cold night. Things like "What the ___ is that fool doing out there on a motorcycle?", or "That guy must be a total idiot, doesn't he know it's 20 below [°C] and there's ice on the road up ahead?", and other such laudatory comments. Late at night, on a long, empty road like that, I'm easily entertained. Next was the climb up to the top of the hill at Pink Mountain, and to find what had happened to all the snow that fell the previous day. As I passed the entrances to the two lodges on opposite sides of the highway, I could see the remnants of a heavy snowfall, and there was still a bumpy coating of thick, well-sanded ice all across the road. Tiptoeing through this at a much reduced pace, I was glad to see that the south-facing pavement on the other side had received the benefit of a sunlit day, and only slowed for a short distance to be sure there was no black ice hiding under the cover of darkness. From that point on, it was back to sit there, twist that, while keeping a sharp eye out for four-legged roadblocks. Onowon came into view, and I slowed once more, looking longingly at the buildings, which I knew were warm and cozy inside, but by this time Dawson Creek was less than two hours distant, and the breakfast that I was planning to enjoy there provided a greater incentive than the interior of a motel. Besides, it was ridiculous to succumb to the temptation of creature comfort at this stage of the ride. Rolling into Fort St. John, I felt a little conspicuous in the sparse 4:30 AM traffic. Had it been summer, I could have ridden along with a big sign reading "I am an idiot" and felt the same way. Before long I was back up to speed on the highway to Dawson Creek and, I hoped, a hot breakfast. If we ride much, we sooner or later get to enjoy the carnival- ride experience of crossing a metal grate bridge deck. With good tires and a halfway decent suspension there's no problem with such a surface. Add a little rain, and it might get a bit more interesting. Throw in a cross wind and the pucker factor can increase proportional to the strength of the crosswind. Now picture this one - a long, curving metal grate bridge deck, over the open Peace River with vapor rising from its surface, temperature about -5°F, at O'dark thirty. Needless to say, I took it cautiously, and breathed a little easier when I got back on sanded pavement on the other side, glad that the lights of Taylor, B.C. were disappearing in my rear view mirrors. It was still 5 below when I got to the north side of the Dawson Creek at 5:30 AM, and it didn't take long to find an open restaurant. Carefully turning around in the ice-covered parking lot, I parked near the door and went inside. By now I was accustomed to the strange looks, and besides, I didn't care. It was warm in here, and my feet were happy with that situation. Choosing a seat near the door and a little away from the main group of breakfast diners, I started stripping down to the essentials. My Widder gloves to the right, helmet to the left, jacket on the back of a nearby chair, glasses on the table out of the way. I watched in amazement as the glasses not only steamed up - they were soon covered with white frost, as was the faceshield and the outer surface of my helmet. Enjoying a leisurely meal, along with a single cup of coffee and then some nice, hot tea, I had time to reflect on the first 1450 miles of my sojourn. From the time I'd left Glennallen, I'd been surrounded by snow, and to say the monochrome landscape was becoming boring was a major understatement. Now it was time to find something else to look at. Feeling good after the hearty repast, I decided I would make it at least to Prince George if the road conditions permitted, and probably make an early stop there for another good night's rest. Seattle would be about 8 to 10 hours from there, so I could still make it on Wednesday. Checking my watch again, and doing the quick calculations to come up with local time, the thought that it was three hours later in the Eastern Time Zone hit me. Doug Grosjean had given me his work phone number before I started out, and he would be there now, as it was almost 9:00 AM in Clyde, Ohio. Taking a moment to write down all the parts I thought I would need, I checked to see if my cell phone would let me make a call from here. Getting no satisfaction from that direction, I found a pay phone in the arctic entry and placed the call. Fortunately, Doug was at his desk and answered right away. I explained to him that I'd dropped the bike a couple days earlier, was all right, but needed some parts and pieces and would he notify the COG list to see if I could beg, borrow, rent, or steal the needed parts to get everything back in smooth running order. Because even though all was firmly attached to the bike again, it took nearly five minutes to get something out of the right side bag, and even longer to get it all fastened back together again. Not something I wanted to deal with for the next four weeks and 14,000 miles. During the phone call I also mentioned the fact that I'd come around 900 miles since 12:30 the afternoon before, and ridden through some temperatures as low as -15° F. It wasn't my intention to make a big thing of it, I just found it interesting in that I hadn't really expected to do either of those things. Doug asked if I minded him passing that information along to both the COG list and the LDRiders lists, and I gave my assent. Didn't realize what a tempest in a teapot would result from those tidbits. Man, did I get a hard time from my fellow riders. I became "Crash" Gustafson in short order. Oh well, I've been called worse. Gassing up after breakfast, I learned that the Hart Highway toward Prince George was reported to have black ice not far out of town. There was a thick fog bank lying in a low area just west of Dawson Creek, so I stopped at a pullout short of it and put the bike on the sidestand. Sitting there with my back warmed by the sun that had barely risen above the horizon, and my vest turned down as low as it would go, I felt relaxed and at peace with the world. It wouldn't have taken much to have dozed for a bit, but it was necessary to see what else the highway held in store for me, and there was a need to get on down the road. After about 30 minutes the fog seemed to have lifted, and I figured I'd be able to see the ice, if any was still on the road. By now the temperature had risen to about 15 above and it was looking to be another beautiful day for riding. From Dawson Creek it's a short 44 miles over to the tiny community of East Pine, and its twisty little river crossing, then another 20 miles on to Chetwynd. The latter town was still in winter hibernation when I passed through, and it paid no more attention to me than I to it. The 250 miles from Dawson Creek to Prince George takes the traveler through grain fields and next to pine-covered mountains as it follows the valley of the Pine River; then over Pine Summit, around lakes, through what looks to be some great fishing country, and past many more miles of forest. It's a beautiful ride, even when the weather's a little chilly. But once again I found myself surrounded by the monotony of the white topography. Yep, it was time to find a place with some varied colors in the landscape, and I didn't plan on stopping until I got there. Encountering a brief snow squall through Pine Pass, the temperatures started climbing in earnest as I descended toward Prince George. Once down off the summit, the elevation varies less than 100 feet until the final drop down into the Fraser River valley, and that was where the temperature finally got comfortably above freezing. It sure felt good! Riding through downtown Prince George, I realized that it had been just 24 hours since breakfast and starting south from Whitehorse the previous day. Noting the mileage, later calculations showed the distance to be 1134 miles. Once more a Saddlesore, had I just bothered to document it. However, this ride wasn't to get certificates, just to get to the destination, so that was merely a serendipitous occurrence. Here in Prince George the piles of snow revealing themselves here and there between buildings offered mute testimony that spring was still a few weeks away this far north, and there was an all-too-real possibility that I could wake up tomorrow to six inches or more of snow, so southward I continued. Stopping at Hixon around 1:30 PM, the windshield was dampened with the beginnings of a soft rain as I gassed up. Talking with the clerk in the little convenience store, she told me that just a couple days earlier the area had been blanketed by a heavy snowfall. Just what I needed to hear to cement my resolve. Being somewhat familiar with the route after over 40 years of travel up and down the Fraser River valley, I knew that the one place to be sure of finding dry, bare ground tomorrow morning was the junction town of Cache Creek, which is surrounded by desert. My destination was established, and at 6:15 PM I checked into a motel in that small community, safely assured that I had seen the last of stark white scenery for a while. Total distance from Whitehorse: 1428 cool, white, but fun, miles. Had I ridden another 72 miles, it could have been a Bun Burner. No matter, I was stopping right here, where there was no snow to be seen in any direction. Wednesday, April 10, 2002 Cache Creek, B.C., Canada Wednesday morning found me up and feeling bright and frisky by 7:00 AM. After a meager breakfast that left me looking longingly at the closed fruit stands along the next 30 miles of highway, I was packed and ready to head south, then west. First though, I needed to notify my insurance carrier and get the ball rolling to accomplish repairs on the bike when I got back home. A little after 10:00 AM that had been taken care of, and travel could begin again. As I pulled out of Cache Creek after fueling up, there were clouds over the mountains ahead, but nothing detracted from the awesome scenery of the Thompson and Fraser River canyons that morning. Those of us fortunate enough to have traveled these miles can only make an attempt, with words and photos, to describe the natural beauty. If you ever get the chance, spend some time in southern B.C. and over along the Alberta border in the Canadian Rockies. Sorry, but the Colorado Rockies pale in comparison. The temperature was in the low sixties now, so the snowmobile suit was bungeed onto the Givi top case and I was once again able to wear the Roadcrafter. This left me feeling much more protected as I twisted and turned along the canyon wall high above the roily Fraser River. Coming into Hope, a slight sprinkle dampened the pavement and lent a pleasant freshness to the air. Even though I've traveled this route since 1962, I never tire of seeing this part of Canada. Outside of Hope, Trans-Canada 1, which I'd been on since leaving Cache Creek, becomes a four-lane divided highway, just like an interstate down in the U. S. Nonetheless, it remains a scenic byway as it runs along the base of the mountains that stretch from here south across the international border into Washington State. This is the kind of riding I never tire of. Before long, it's through U. S. customs at Sumas, Washington, then a stop on a side road to make a few phone calls now that cell phone reception is good again. While arriving in the Seattle area later than I'd planned and hoped, it's still early enough to swing by Ron's house in Bothell to tighten up loose bolts and nuts, and begin repairing some of the damage from the fall up in the Yukon. Ron, gracious host as always, drove me around to pick up some extra nylon screws for the windshield, and helped me with the repairs that would get me down to Bend, Oregon, where a few replacement parts were already waiting. He also came up with some 3M super adhesive foam that we used to remount my Saeng mirrors to the windshield. It held up fine for the rest of the trip. With Ron's able assistance, we also discovered that the right hand driving light had only separated into several pieces, but had not broken. Reconnecting the wires to the bulb and back of the light, and fitting the lens/reflector unit back into the somewhat flexible housing, the light was functioning once more. Just to be on the safe side, however, we applied a full band of clear packaging tape around the whole assembly. Later, while riding at night, I would be very glad to have both of the Hella's adding their illumination to that of the single headlight. While at Ron's, Russ Pagenkopf from Juneau, Alaska, who would be my riding partner for this little tour, showed up on his Honda Nighthawk. As an employee of Alaska Airlines, he had taken advantage of one of the perks of his employment and shipped his bike south to Seattle and flown down himself to begin the Four Corners Tour at nearby Blaine, Washington. After picking the bike up at the Alaska Airlines cargo facility, he'd ridden up to Everett Powersports to have new tires mounted and the bike serviced. He and his bike were now ready for the long journey. Our plan at this point was to overnight at Blaine and then, after an early morning departure from that beginning point, meet Ron north of Seattle and ride together to the Washington coast for a lunch of fresh oysters. We retired to Café Veloce to discuss the finer points of our plan over a delightful meal, after which Russ and I headed north through the gentle Northwest rain to Blaine for a good night's rest. Thursday, April 11, 2002 Blaine, Washington Typical of this part of the country, adjacent to the Strait of Georgia, which separates Vancouver Island from mainland British Columbia, there was a gentle rain softly falling as we mounted our bikes and headed for the Denny's that we'd passed on the way into Blaine the previous night. Then back to the motel to finish packing, ride a couple blocks to the Blaine Post Office for our official photos, gas up, and away we go. It was a pleasant morning in spite of the drizzle, and even that soon dried up so we could ride comfortably and without having to wipe moisture off our faceshields every few minutes. Traffic was moving at a reasonably rapid pace, and Russ and I were out in the hammer lane next to the median keeping our own pace rather brisk. Suddenly, there was a cloud of steam behind my windshield. The immediate thought was that I'd hit a larger puddle and the water vaporized when it hit my exhaust pipes. The smell of anti-freeze that followed on its heels quickly laid that wishful thinking to rest. Pull in the clutch, hit the kill button and the four-way flashers at the same time, and quickly get as far to the left as the guardrail will allow while slowing to a stop. For the second time on this trip I found myself thinking "This can't be happening". But it was. After parking the bike on its sidestand, we looked back down the highway we had just covered, and the telltale trail of coolant was proof that the ride was on hold until some repairs were made. While I hadn't really wanted to test AAA's Plus RV coverage for my motorcycle, I felt this was a time to find out how useful it might be. Digging out my cell phone, I punched in the numbers and waited for an answer. Have you ever tried making a phone call while standing in the median with traffic whizzing by at 65+ mph just a few feet away? My hearing's not the best anymore anyway, and this situation didn't lend any assistance. Finally, I just explained precisely where I was, the nature of my problem, gave my membership number, and told the person on the other end that I hoped they could understand enough to get a truck out to get me. Whether I ever got an affirmative answer or not, I'll never know. Russ and I stood there on the back side of the guardrail for 45 minutes without seeing any sign of a tow truck or wrecker. We were almost convinced we'd be there until traffic thinned out sometime later that night, when a pickup with a two-bike trailer whipped in right ahead of me. Thinking that AAA had really been on the ball, I was surprised when the driver told us that he'd seen us standing here as he drove northbound on the opposite side, going to pick up a bike and take it back to Lynnwood Yamaha, where he worked. As a thoughtful gesture to fellow motorcyclists, he'd stayed in the left-hand lane as he approached our location to see if we were still stranded there. I'm sure the gratitude we felt for his concern was evident on our faces as we loaded my Concours alongside the Yamaha he'd picked up earlier. As we were driving back to his shop, the driver introduced himself as Andy Hardin, the service manager at Lynnwood Yamaha. Unloading the Concours in the yard behind the shop, Andy pointed to a tent set up next to the building and told me I was welcome to work on my bike there, out of the rain that was becoming imminent. Before starting on the bike, we contacted Ron, who said he would be headed up that way as soon as he could get moving. At this point it's appropriate to mention that Russ and I had discussed the possibility of one of our bikes breaking down on the Tour, and we'd agreed that the partner with the operating bike could continue on, as there was no need to sacrifice both rides because of one bike's problems. But Russ was having none of that. He stayed there with me, even though Ron had also shown up to offer whatever assistance he could. And it was comforting to have all that help, even though there was only room for one person to work. That comfort didn't come without its price, however. Russ spent some time photographing me in as many embarrassing positions as possible, chuckling all the while. To add insult to injury, he used MY camera for the pictures. I'd get even later. Heh-heh. It didn't take long to find the problem - a bolt holding a cooling line into a casting had backed out, allowing the coolant to spray directly out of the water pump onto the ground. Both the bolt and the O-ring on the coolant line were gone. Andy found two metric bolts, one of which was exactly right. Trying a Yamaha O-ring didn't work as well, though, but calling a nearby Kawasaki dealer resulted in finding 3 of the proper O-rings in stock. Ron and Russ hurried down the street to pick 2 of those up for me (luckily, as the first was destroyed in installing it). Finally, after being stopped for nearly six hours, the Concours was back together and ready to travel once more. This time with Loctite insuring the bolt would stay around for the remainder of the trip. Once we were sure the Connie was again roadworthy, Russ and I ascertained that our bikes were loaded properly and ready to go, offered our heartfelt thanks to Andy, and made haste to get back on I-5. Before heading south, however, we had to go back north to pick up the tour where it had come to a halt earlier in the day. There was no way I would allow anyone to say that the Concours hadn't covered every inch of the Four Corners under its own power. Now, almost an hour after we'd left Lynnwood Yamaha, we were once again moving in the right direction. As luck would have it, our timing was such that we got to the heart of Seattle just at the beginning of "rush hour". Having worked right through lunch, we were both ready to stop for a bite to eat, and soon found a spot not too far off the interstate. Not a dining establishment we would have chosen under other circum- stances, but for the moment it sufficed. Knowing that traffic would be heavy for another hour or two, we took our time and regrouped, so to speak. An hour and a half later, with traffic in the downtown Seattle area lessened considerably, we headed south once more, into the rain that we could see falling from thick, leaden clouds down Tacoma way. Fortunately, traffic moved well, and we were nearing Olympia as darkness approached. Russ was in front, setting a good pace. Earlier, he'd told me the Battleax tires he'd had installed on his Nighthawk inspired confidence, and he was moving just a bit faster than the traffic. It was while we were leaving Olympia and traffic had thinned just a bit, that I took over the lead and discovered something that aided us for the next five thousand miles. During my winter maintenance and preparation, I'd added a Kisan headlight modulator. If someone in a cage seemed to want to park in the number one lane, without making an effort to pass the vehicle next to him, I would hit the high beam, which would activate the modulator. Apparently the driver woke up, thinking that this might be a LEO in his rearview. Whatever, it proved to be very helpful and later, whenever Russ was in the lead and a stubborn driver refused to yield, I'd pull up behind the driver and flip on the modulator. It probably worked in 7 or 8 out of 10 tries. But once full dark arrived, the modulator no longer modulated, so we were on our own. At one point, heading south from Olympia toward Portland, attempting to goad a young male driver into being our rabbit for a few miles, it became obvious that he was expecting US to be HIS rabbits. No thanks, it doesn't work that way. We lost him in a bit of heavier traffic and went back to finding our own rabbits. At a rest area south of Portland, Russ and I stopped to compare notes and decided that stopping for the night and getting a good night's rest might be the wisest course. Neither of us had had a really good rest the night before, and after catching up, we could make better time tomorrow. Just as we were getting ready to remount, a young rider on a ZX6R pulled in next to us. Riding in the steady rain, just as we had been, the rider looked half drowned. But he seemed cheerful and ready to continue. During a brief chat, he revealed that he was headed for Southern California, wanting to arrive there the next night. Under questioning, we found that he was getting a bit cold, as he wasn't really properly dressed for an all night ride in the rain. His feet were especially suffering, he mentioned. Russ dug into his side bag and brought out a pair of polypropylene socks and handed them to the young man, telling him to wear them to help keep his feet warm. A moment that made me proud to be riding with Russ. Friday, April 12, 2002 Salem, Oregon Damp, and a little weary, Russ and I found a motel at one of the exits off I-5 in Salem. It would be nice to get a good night's sleep and then ride steadily the next day to make it to Death Valley in time to meet up with the group down there. The next morning, feeling well rested, Russ and I hunted up a restaurant to start the day off with a good breakfast. We both knew meal stops were going to be an unaffordable luxury today, once we were back on the road. While I'd been hurrying to get from Dawson Creek to Seattle without being terribly late, Russ had been acting as coordinator for the parts that were coming from all over the U. S. Unbeknownst to me until I arrived in Seattle, these parts were headed to Bend, Oregon, to be held there by Carl Metler, one of the great guys (and also the Executive Director) of the Concours Owners Group. Now Russ and I were headed for Bend to meet Carl and to install the needed parts onto the Concours. Once we found Carl and his charming wife Rhonda in Bend, we quickly removed the damaged parts from my Concours and installed the replacements that had been waiting there for our arrival. After an all-too-brief visit, we were back on the road with the intention of making it to Death Valley before morning. There are several things that can cause poor gas mileage on a motorcycle. One of those things is a strong head wind. Another is a highway that's straight, has good visibility for a long distance ahead and behind, and that has little traffic and no towns. Funny how quick you can go through a tank of gas under those conditions. Such a road is Oregon Hwy. 31 heading southeast off of US-97 from the vicinity of LaPine. Having topped off our tanks before leaving Salem that morning, we waited until we were heading off into the more unpopulated south-central desert before refueling at LaPine. With just over 10 gallons of useable fuel aboard there was a chance I'd make it to Reno before having to stop again. Imagine my surprise and dismay when I discovered my fuel gauge bouncing off the "E" only 275 miles after filling up. We stopped in Standish, California to allay my fears and grab some minor sustenance, while I calculated my mileage at a pitiful 30.6 mpg for this leg, and Russ smirked as he dribbled a little gasoline into his fuel-sipping Nighthawk. This wouldn't be the last time Russ cackled gleefully when observing the disparity in our fuel consumption rates. But my time would come before this ride was over. He who laughs last, and all that. Once on US-395 again, we would sometimes ride side-by-side on this sparsely-traveled highway to give ourselves the advantage of two headlights and four driving lights revealing a path through the darkness as we hurried toward Death Valley. Reno, Nevada isn't a particularly large city, especially when traversed from north to south, and we were intent on making it seem as small as possible this night, with many miles ahead of us. It was around 11:30 PM when we saw the lights along the southern edge of Reno, and dark desert highway ahead of us. It was also starting to cool down noticeably. Not sure of the gas station schedules for the next 350 or so miles, we stopped for fuel in Carson City near midnight, again noticing the drop in temperature as night progressed here in this dry, high altitude air. Saturday, April 13, 2002 US-395 south of Carson City, Nevada This night I found that once again my expectations exceeded what nature had in mind to provide. Both Russ and I had been feeling the cool of the night, and as we dropped down along the shoreline of Mono Lake, coming into Lee Vining, California, I noticed my tell-tale thermometer dropping to 26°F. This isn't supposed to be happening, for crying out loud! Here we are in California, the land of sunshine and seashores, far from the frigid north, and we find below freezing temperatures. How far south would I have to go to insure staying warm? As the highway gained altitude once more south of town, I found Russ' headlight diminishing in my rear view. Turning around to see what might be wrong, I found Russ putting on nearly every bit of warm clothing he had along. My snowmobiling suit had been left rolled up in a plastic bag at Ron's or I would have been doing the same thing. As I have pointed out before, the Goretex of which the Roadcrafter is made only slows the wind, it won't stop it. So I donned the Widder vest, arm chaps, and gloves, feeling like a real wimp now that I was here in "sunny" California, but staying pretty warm for the rest of the night. One more gas stop at Bishop, and then on to Lone Pine, where we turned east onto CA-190 and into Death Valley. The brightening of the eastern sky ahead was a welcome sight, giving promise that the cold night was nearly over and we would soon be riding in comfort. This route into Death Valley was a pleasant experience, with the twisting pavement finally offering the type of riding we had been hoping to find, and the temperature rising to a pleasant degree with the drop in altitude. Finally, at around 6:00 AM, we arrived at the motel at Stovepipe Wells and found the front desk. The night before, I'd phoned them from farther north to assure the management that we would indeed be arriving eventually, just hold the room and charge the credit card. So it didn't take long to get checked in and parked in front of our room, and luggage unloaded and stowed inside its spacious air-conditioned comfort. Arriving when we did, just a short time after sunrise, there were people already up and about, enjoying the cool of the morning before the hot desert sun began beating down on this little oasis. This reminded me that breakfast would soon be prepared, and I was feeling hungry after our all-night ride with its chilly temperatures. Russ preferred to inspect the back side of his eyelids for the moment, so I left him to wander about and locate the dining room as well as locate any others from the COG group. There was a lovely swimming pool near our room, and it dawned on me that I'd forgotten to include a pair of swimming trunks in my packing. Guess being surrounded by snow when I was packing at home had pushed the thought of swimming from my mind. This wouldn't be the last time I'd regret not having the proper gear for taking a dip. As the sun climbed higher in the sky a few more of the vacationers came out of their rooms into the rapidly-warming daylight, and I started meeting some of the riders who had ridden to the spot the previous day. Soon I was seated at breakfast with a couple of them, and we began to get acquainted over our morning refreshment. It was nice, finally being able to relax with no distant destination imploring me to hurry. While I realized I should lay down and get some rest, I was feeling good after breakfast, and there was too much to do and see for me to feel sleepy. Many of the riders took off for a circuit of the valley that would take them over passes and through all the most scenic areas. Having just parked the bike, and afraid that I might be too tired to keep up with all these fresh riders, I decided to stay closer to the motel. In a little while Russ was up and ready to take a ride with me, so we headed south to investigate the rest of the valley floor. By now the sun was beating down, and although it was a "dry" heat, it was still mighty hot for two Alaskans dressed in motorcycling gear. Our first stop was at the Furnace Creek Visitors Center to grab something cool to drink and to discuss our potential route. We decided to see how bad it could get and headed on south toward the spot marked on the map as the lowest elevation in North America at 282 ft. below sea level. As we rode, I kept a close watch on my digital thermometer, as I was interested in what extremes this whole tour would present. Watching as the digits climbed above 100, hovering at 103°F for several miles, then climbing again as we continued to descend, the highest reading that stayed on the display for more than a few seconds was 105. Perfect! I prefer nice, even numbers, and with the -15°F that I'd recorded 4½ days earlier this would make the extremes 120° apart - good enough for me. So as we approached the turn off to Artists Loop I slowed and turned in, coming to a stop on the edge of the side road. However, as soon as the bike quit moving the heat from the fairing and the engine below it hit the sensor and the temperature indication quickly hit 120 and climbing. As I'd wanted to take a photo of the high temperature, this wouldn't do. We could sit there in the sun, waiting until the indication came back down, and if either of us survived we could snap the photo for our survivors to enjoy. Somehow that didn't appeal to our sense of logic, so we had to come up with another plan. Russ had a bottle of juice that he'd purchased back at the Visitors Center, so I asked him to put a drop or two on the sensor to cool it off. That worked - too well. Now the display indicated it was only 89° out there. Well, nothing to do now but wait, as we knew it would climb back up, and all I had to do was be ready when it passed through 105 once more. Now Russ had shown a lot of patience with me and my foibles to this point, but I believe that patience was growing thin as he stood there in the still, hot air, with the bright California sun beating down on his black FirstGear jacket while I waited for the exact moment to snap my photo. Finally the numerals appeared as they should, I got the shot and put my camera away, and we continued through the twists and turns of Artists Loop. Most riders are familiar with the fact that if you are riding at 53°F, and the temperature drops to 52°F, you can feel it nearly instantly. For me, it was the same way on the Alcan as the temperature dropped from -12 to -13, then to -14, etc. But Death Valley was off my personal scale. There was no sensible difference from 100 to 105°F, so far as I could discern. For this test I'd purposely left the Mira-Cool vest in the motel room, wanting to see what effect the heat would have on me, and how long it would be before I noticed it. Didn't take long. About 30 miles after we left the last stop (at least it seemed that far, might not have been), I started feeling the first hint of nausea. Told Russ it was time to turn around. We got back to the Visitor Center all right, and sat in the shade sipping iced tea for a while before venturing out into the sun again. After getting back to the motel room at Stovepipe Wells we got cleaned up and ready to attend the dinner party that was planned for the evening. A good crowd showed up, with most coming from other parts of California. Frank Taylor and his lovely wife had ridden in from Salt Lake City, Utah, "Idaho" Bob Rainey from his home state, and if my failing memory isn't too far off, there were a couple of gentlemen from Texas. Wherever we came from, I believe the feeling was unanimous that it was worth the distance. As with nearly all such gatherings, the lies and tire-kicking continued into the night until heavy eyelids and planned early-morning departures brought it all to a close. Sunday, April 14, 2002 Stovepipe Wells, Death Valley, California With no real schedule to keep to today, Russ and I made a late departure from the motel. So late, in fact, I was afraid I'd be charged another day's room rent. But the management was generous, and we got off with just the standard outrageous charge. It was in the mid-80's as we headed west out of the Valley, and not unpleasant at all, now that we had acclimated. Just to be safe though, I was wearing a Mira-Cool vest that had been soaking in water all night. Combined with the extremely low humidity, this was as good as having air-conditioning - until we stopped for gas at Lone Pine. But a cold bottle of iced tea took care of that until we were once again underway, this time back north on US-395. We were going to follow the same route the others had ridden the previous day, but in the opposite direction. Arriving at Big Pine, we turned east toward Death Valley once again. We'd been told that CA-168 crawled over two passes between the Nevada line and Big Pine, and provided some great scenery. Having the time to enjoy the side trip, we were looking forward to it. Coming down from Westgard Pass, and out of the trees, I turned back to use the natural "facilities" the way we find ourselves doing in Alaska. While back a ways off the road, I heard a motorcycle stop very near where mine was parked. Soon I heard a voice calling to see if I was all right. I responded that I was merely answering nature's call, and the rider acknowledged and rode off again. As he pulled away, I could make out enough of the bright red bike to (mis)identify it as an ST1100. After all, aren't all ST1100's red? Russ was waiting down the road a mile or two at a large gravel pull out, and when I pulled in, he was ready to go again. I led as we continued east, past Spring Creek Ranch, and up the hill toward the final pass prior to entering Nevada. As I got to the top - Gilbert Summit - I pulled off onto a gravel patch to take some photos of the panorama spread out behind me while I waited for Russ to catch up. And waited. And waited. After a few minutes, I sensed that things were not as they should be. There were no good spots to pull off and take pictures until this one, so Russ should be coming on up. I'd better go back, it could be that this climb, combined with the heat and elevation, caused his bike to act up and maybe quit on him. Not sure what I might find, I headed back down from the summit. About half a mile from the top, the driver of an oncoming car flagged me down. "Your friend ran off the road, but he's okay", she told me. And then went on to describe how far back down the road he was. This was not the news I wanted to hear, but at least Russ was okay, although how good "okay" was could be open to interpretation. When I got to where Russ was standing, I felt much better. At least he was able to walk around. His bike was down off the side of the road, in among some little desert bushes, which were trying unsuccessfully to hide some rather large, nasty looking rocks. By this time Russ had detached as many things from his bike as were readily detachable, as well as a few things that shouldn't have been. His windshield was history, there was a deep ding in the gas tank, one bag had been ripped loose from its binding, and the handlebar was tweaked severely. Other damage surfaced much later, as we proceeded toward Las Vegas. From the looks of the tracks, Russ had apparently taken the left-hander a little wide, and once onto the loose gravel of the narrow shoulder, it was all she wrote. The big rock right in his path as he headed out across the landscape didn't help, either. When I got to the scene of the mishap, a very helpful gentleman had already pulled up in his SUV and was doing what he could to help Russ. A few moments later a motorcyclist pulled up and parked on the shoulder near where we were looking at the bike. As he pulled up, I recognized the bright red as probably being the same one I had seen pulling away while I was standing behind the tree earlier, but now noticed it was a PC800, not the ST1100 I had assumed it was. But when the rider removed his helmet, I was astounded to see that it was someone I recognized from having dined with him in Glennallen, Alaska the previous summer. Will Edwards, from near Seattle, Washington, just happened to be riding the same lonely road across the north edge of Death Valley that Russ and I had chosen. Talk about a small world! While I would rather have met Will again under better circumstances, it was really good to see him again. As a retired motor officer, he has many, many years of experience on two wheels, and was certain to be a welcome addition to our little company. As we stood there talking, Will told us that he had been heading for Las Vegas to see the "Art of the Motorcycle" exhibit, as we were planning to do. Thus it was that we became three. The helpful gentleman in the SUV lived in Las Vegas, and offered to transport some of Russ' belongings to his home where we could pick them up later, after Russ got his bike in better shape for carrying all the gear. So off we went, Russ in the lead, Will and I following. As luck (bad) would have it, we were riding into a fierce headwind almost all the way into Las Vegas, and with no windshield Russ was having quite a battle, hanging on to his bent handlebars while nursing some soreness in his neck and back. Monday, April 15, 2002 Las Vegas, Nevada My first visit to Las Vegas was in late summer, 1992, as I was hauling a load of computer manufacturing equipment from Boise, Idaho to LAX for air shipment to Israel. Driving west across US-93 from Caliente, Nevada that night, I'd noticed a glow in the sky to the south. One hundred miles away hundreds of megawatts of electricity were being consumed to make this probably the brightest lit spot on the face of the earth. The next day I dropped my trailer at a truckstop and bobtailed around the city, in awe at the number of places a sucker and his dollar (or nickels, dimes, or quarters) could be separated. Interested in a little sightseeing, I'd hooked on to my trailer the next day and drove down 93 toward Kingman, but turned around just inside the Arizona line to take another look at Hoover Dam. I'll tell you, the best way to SEE the U. S. is from a cabover semi-tractor. Provided it's air-conditioned and has a comfortable bunk. But the best way to EXPERIENCE the U. S. is from the seat of a motorcycle. Now here I was back again, maybe my tenth visit in the past ten years. The initial attraction had long since worn off, and it now appeared only as an oversized city sitting in the hot desert. We'd found a room Sunday night at the Motel 6 on W. Tropicana Blvd. and settled in for an extended stay. Russ needed to get some work done on his bike, and we had planned all along to visit the Art of the Motorcycle exhibit. As it turned out, Russ spent most of his day getting the work done on his Honda and purchasing parts and a new helmet. Will and I headed on to the Venetian to view the motorcycles, urging Russ to get there as soon as he could. From all we'd heard before coming down this way, it was worth every cent of the admission price. As it proved to be. Something happened that Monday morning that made us wonder if it was safe to be in our company. Russ and Will left the motel in the morning to ride over to the Honda dealer Russ had contacted to work on his bike. They left the motel headed east, and were making a U-turn at the first intersection to head back west. As they made the turn, Russ looked in his rear view mirror and saw Will and his bike on their sides. When we arrived in Las Vegas the evening before the wind was howling through the city. It was obvious, from the amount of debris that was blowing all over, that wind of this velocity was unusual, even for Las Vegas. Along with the wind came light, loose sand. It was a thin layer of this sand, virtually invisible, that had been Will's undoing. Fortunately, there was no discernible damage to the bike or rider, but we began to wonder. Tuesday, April 16, 2002 Las Vegas, Nevada The wind had died down to a steady breeze, and while it was pretty warm, at least the humidity was nearly non-existent. At 9:30 in the morning Russ and I were ready to get back on the highway and headed for San Ysidro, the second corner of our tour. Will was going to head back home to Seattle, so we'd said our good-byes the night before. We topped off our tanks and prepared to get onto I-15 southbound. As we rode along, Russ in the lead, I detected a strong odor of gasoline, and closer investigation revealed a nearly steady stream of the fluid coming from Russ' bike. Signaling him that we needed to stop and check it, we pulled off the interstate and parked along the curb of a subdivision street, in the blazing hot sunlight. The fuel valve from his auxiliary tank was leaking, and it took a few minutes - which included removing the filler from the tank - to correct the problem. Now we were ready to make time in the desired direction. There was no windshield available in Las Vegas for Russ' bike, so he had called ahead to a Cycle Gear outlet in San Marcos, California. They would have one sent to their store by UPS and have it waiting when we got there Tuesday afternoon. Now we had an appointment to keep prior to making the corner at San Ysidro. Once again Russ was riding without a windshield, but with new handlebars and without the vicious headwind it was much easier so we maintained a good pace. After we got to Cycle Gear it didn't take Russ an hour to have the new windshield mounted and his bike ready to go again. Fortunately, there was a Baskin-Robbins ice cream store just across the side street, so I had something to do while Russ worked on his bike. Alaskans are reputed to be the largest per capita consumers of ice cream in the world, and it is only with diligence that we maintain that reputation. Had to stay in practice. Nearing sundown, we arrived at San Ysidro around 6:30 PM and saw a little more of the town than really necessary as we searched for the San Ysidro Post Office. Having difficulty finding legal parking near the post office, we pulled the bikes up to the curb in front of the sign and quickly took our obligatory photos and departed. It didn't take us long to find our way back out to I-805 then I-8 and get our bikes pointed east. It was just after we'd started toward Arizona on I-8 that Russ and I had our first, but far from last, mix-up due to a lack of communication. Being the idiot that I am, I'd failed to change my dark tinted faceshield to the clear one while we were stopped at San Ysidro. So now, with the sun well down over the horizon, I realized I needed to get it done if I were to see where I was going. Leading at the time, I signaled for a right turn to change lanes and take the next exit, which came up sooner than I'd expected. Russ was caught behind a couple of cars and didn't see me get off the freeway. We were now separated, with no plans made for getting back together in case of such an event, except that we had each other's cell phone numbers. As long as I was off the interstate anyway, I went ahead and found a store with a large parking lot along the cross street, then proceeded to change my faceshield and take care of anything else that needed attention for the all night ride that was to follow. It wasn't long before my cell phone rang. Russ had realized what I'd done a bit too late to get off the freeway with me, so he'd gone on up a few more exits to one with a fast food restaurant. After getting directions from him, I rode up to join him in a meal that was overdue anyway. Now we were ready to travel. Having read of many riders encountering high crosswinds as they passed over the summit east of San Diego, we were prepared to fight them ourselves. But to our relief, there were only some benign breezes to cool us before our descent into the purgatory of the Imperial Valley. We continued to make good progress as we approached the Arizona border. Wednesday, April 17, 2002 I-8, nearing Yuma, Arizona Midnight and a new day arrived together just minutes before we left California and crossed into Arizona at Yuma. A quick stop to refuel and grab some liquid refreshment and snacks, and back onto the interstate. The miles continued to fall behind as we waited for the sun to come up ahead of us. It was just getting light when we turned off I-8 at Gila Bend and headed north to intersect I-10 west of Phoenix. A few miles to the west on I-10 there was a Rip Griffin Truck Stop that I'd stopped at several times in the past, so we turned that way to grab some breakfast. After breakfast, our next destination was the Cycle Gear outlet in Mesa, Arizona. I'd had a friend back home mail a spare Givi mounting plate there for me to pick up. We took a few minutes in the parking lot to bolt that on, completing the final repair to my Concours and allowing me to discard the strap that had been holding the tail trunk to the bike for the last 4600 miles. Prior to our departure from Alaska Russ and I had made plans to visit the Big Bend country of Texas if we had the time. If we kept moving at a steady pace, we would have ample time before we had to be in McComb, Mississippi Friday night. Electing to abandon the interstate in favor of some two-lane highway, we continued east on US-60, fueling again at Apache Junction and then headed across the dry, hot country toward New Mexico. At Globe we turned onto US-70, which would take us on to Lordsburg, New Mexico, where we would once again join I-10. Shortly before crossing the state line into New Mexico, Russ found a large pullout with a lone tree (although that term is even stretching it a bit) that offered a token shelter from the hot sun, because he needed to do some more work on his ailing bike. Thus the term "shade tree mechanic" became a reality there in that desiccating climate. The 10 months that have passed since that day have blotted the exact nature of the repair from my memory, but it was serious enough that we were there for over an hour while Russ worked on it. Long enough that at one point we had to move both bikes to stay in the shade as it circled around our miniscule shelter. Finally the repairs were completed to Russ' satisfaction; his bike was repacked; and we prepared to leave Arizona behind. Except that the Honda's engine wouldn't turn over. We tried push starting it to no avail, the engine was locked. Taking a break to think things over, the thought occurred that the problem might be hydrostatic lock. A little sleuthing proved that to be the case, and by removing all the spark plugs it was soon cleared up. The offending cylinder was apparently the first one to come up on compression stroke so there was insufficient inertia to damage connecting rod or crankshaft, and there was no indication of any damage to the engine. We breathed a joint sigh of relief when it was once again running smoothly and quietly, as a blown engine at this point in the Tour would have severely afflicted our schedule. Now we were once again on our way to Lordsburg, where we enjoyed a meal, then rode on over to Las Cruces to spend the night at one of my favorite Best Western motels. Thursday, April 18, 2002 Las Cruces, New Mexico Las Cruces has always been a city I enjoy waking up in. This morning was no different. It was cool and dry, with a soft breeze gently shaking the leaves in the trees that surrounded the courtyard. Beautiful weather for a ride, and that's what we had planned for the day. It was just after 4:00 PM when we got to Marfa, Texas on our way down to the Rio Grande River at Presidio. There would be daylight for several hours, so we continued with our plan to take in the Big Bend area. In many trips back and forth across Texas on I-10, I-20, I-40, I-35, I-45, and numerous two-lane highways in the past 40 years, I have gained the impression that Texas has more square miles of nothing to see than several other states put together - including Kansas. But the ride along the Rio Grande in that part of the state had me revising my opinion. Maybe I'm just a sucker for natural, rugged, mountain scenery, but I found myself rubber-necking like any other tourist as we rode down the narrow valley. I'll go back for another look, and many more photos, someday. Dusk was coming on swiftly as we passed the Big Bend National Park Headquarters near Panther Junction, and we were soon back to using our driving lights as we sought to avoid the numerous deer yet get back onto a main highway and once again resume our trek eastward. Reaching Fort Stockton around 11:00 PM we first fueled the bikes, then found a restaurant in which to fuel the riders. Friday, April 19, 2002 Fort Stockton, Texas We finished our supper and got on our bikes just at the hour they were in danger of turning into pumpkins. We had been hoping all along to get to McComb Friday night, but we still had a few miles to go (900, actually). So away we went once more, ready to do those miles at a Saddlesore pace. Getting separated west of San Antonio, Russ and I followed divergent routes getting into that city, but managed to join up again in time to look for a place to eat breakfast as we exited to the east on I-10. Taking an exit with a likely looking dining establishment, we parked in front and proceeded to remove helmets, gloves, and riding suits. About the time we were ready to head for the door, a young lady - presumably the waitress - came out and announced that the restaurant was closing. This met with some skepticism from Russ and I, as the patrons within showed no sign of preparing to leave. In fact, a car pulled up and the driver strode on in and took a seat at a table with no sign that he was being refused service. We took photos of the place, and noted the location (I-10, Exit 587, on the southwest side) in order to publicize the anti- motorcyclist attitude we witnessed there. It's nice to be able to report that in all our travels, that was the only instance of bias that we were aware of. We rode on up to Seguin to have our breakfast. While stopped there, a gentleman approached us, asking a few questions about our travels. Before leaving, he mentioned that he had a friend who had ridden up to Colorado and thought he was traveling a very long distance. The man said with a big grin "Wait until I see him again. I'm gonna tell him I met some REAL riders today". Yeah, if we can just learn to keep our bikes upright. By staying in the saddle and moving with the flow of the traffic in the passing lanes we arrived in McComb just about sundown. It was great to be there, and know that we'd have a day to just goof off and have a good time, as well as get caught up on laundry and any shopping we had to do. Saturday, April 20, 2002 McComb, Mississippi It had been just five years since I last drove through McComb, Mississippi, and it hadn't changed enough to notice. McComb is still a small country town beside the interstate. We got up well after sunup and took our time walking over to a nearby restaurant for breakfast. By the traffic up and down the main street, it was obvious to one and all that there were a number of motorcyclists in town. By now, McComb is used to this annual spring pilgrimage and we were greeted by friendly smiles wherever we went. Shortly after noon riders began the slow but steady migration across the interstate to Shane's huge yard. It would be futile to attempt to describe the Crawfish Boil to anyone who hasn't attended such a fest, so I won't. Those who have been to one know what it's like, and those who haven't should try to get to one. Russ and I each had a great time, getting to meet many of the celebrities of the long distance riding crowd and even visit with a few. I felt like a teenager at a rock stars convention. Along with many others, I offer my heartfelt thanks to Shane and his lovely family for putting this event on year after year. Sunday, April 21, 2002 McComb, Mississippi Knowing that most of this day would be spent grinding out the miles, Russ and I made no attempt to get an early start. After the bikes were packed and ready, we rode over to Shane's to say our farewells. Nearly all the other attendees had already left, and the clean-up was in its final stages. Back in McComb, it was a beautiful Mississippi morning in which we fueled up at noon and departed in the 83° warmth. According to the odometer on the Concours, we had traveled just over 6740 miles since leaving Glennallen, not even halfway yet. Today's riding included a planned visit to Mayor Corky down in Lower Alabama so we angled across southern Mississippi to Mobile, Alabama. Mobile is, to me, the archetypal deep south city, and I retraced a path taken many years ago to enter from the west side on US-98. The stately old oak trees weave a seemingly solid canopy over the broad Dauphin Street as it nears the old city center. Along with the sight comes the memory of getting my semi stuck under one of the branches after I'd turned onto a side street, with the trailer on one side of the branch and the exhaust stack on the other. With the aid of a police officer to block traffic while I maneuvered to extricate the tractor, I'd managed to avoid becoming one of the area's major attractions. Russ and I elected to do a little sightseeing while at Mobile, and exited the interstate to visit Battleship Park on the edge of Mobile Bay. We had quite an enjoyable time, clambering up and down ladders on the USS Alabama, and then touring the aviation exhibit in its new building. Staying until closing time, we knew we'd have to make good time getting on over to see Da Mayor. Our time spent with Dr. Reed went by all too swiftly, and left us wishing we'd had the full day to enjoy his enlightening company. But we had already used up most of the cushion we had when we left Blaine, and there were still two more corners to visit before we could stamp FINI on our tour. Somewhere around 11:00 PM we were back on I-10 eastbound. Monday, April 22, 2002 I-10 near Milton, Florida The dread I-10 high speed, run-over-you-if-you-aren't-doing- triple-digits-traffic never materialized, and we just continued riding at our pace just a little over the posted limit, passing a few vehicles, and being passed by even fewer. Not very many miles after getting back on the slab, Russ and I had one of those miscommunications that led to us inadvertently splitting up once more. Russ had been leading, doing a fine job of it, but I needed to make a brief pit stop so I passed him with the intention of leading us off at the next exit. Russ misread my intention (I hadn't signaled him properly, or if I did, he couldn't see it in the dark of the night) and passed me again, only to speed off into the distance as I was riding down the exit ramp. Since I was already off the interstate, I continued to take care of my business, tinkered a little with the bike to kill time just in case Russ turned around and came back looking for me, and then got back on I-10 to look for Russ. No sign of him. Oh well, we both knew where we were headed next - Key West - and we'd probably be there late tonight or early in the morning. We could get back together then. One of the many benefits of being on the LDRiders list is the advice you get from other riders, the way they will share mistakes they have seen others make, or that they themselves have made, and suggestions for avoiding those mistakes. Sometime in the past I read advice regarding parking a bike in first gear, rolled forward against engine compression, before putting the sidestand down and leaning the bike over. That was something I know I'd done in the past, but neither consciously no consistently. But on this trip I was very conscientious about doing it every single time I parked the bike. The bike never came close to rolling forward off the sidestand, regardless what sort of grade I was parked on. Another message related an incident in which the rider, in the wee hours of the morning, after many hours in the saddle, attempted to pull into a gas station but hit the curb and dropped his 'Wing onto its side. Thus forewarned, I was extra cautious in the early morning hours. But not quite cautious enough. Somewhere in Florida, just west of the junction of I-10 and I-75 a few hours before sunup, I pulled off the interstate, crossed over the side road and pulled over to the edge of the on-ramp to park and check my map. As I recall, I was also getting chilly and had planned to put on my Widder vest. The pavement had received an additional strip about 18" wide along the right hand edge. As I stopped, I slipped the Concours into first gear, pushed it forward against compression, and lowered the sidestand. Carefully dismounting to the left, I lifted my right leg over the seat and watched the bike tip over to the right, with no way to catch it. I had made the mistake of letting the contrast between the new dark strip and the older gray asphalt convince me that the right hand edge was raised and would cause the bike to lean to the left. The opposite was actually true, and the bike was leaning to the right even before I dismounted. Bummer! But this is why I carry a spare right hand footpeg bracket with me on my trips. Somehow the bracket had survived the spill on the Alcan, but a simple tip-over snapped it. Not only was the bike on its side, but also the angle was enough to tip it beyond the horizontal, and there was less than a foot between the top of the bike and the guardrail, so there was no room to squat beside the bike to lift it in the usual manner. This was not going to be easy. About that time I was getting a bit unhappy with myself. While I stood there surveying the situation, traffic started flowing down the ramp and onto the highway. It must have been time for people to start driving to their jobs in that area. Now back home, all you need to do in a situation like that is to wave for help and within a few minutes someone will pull over and lend a hand. Florida isn't quite the same as Alaska. No fewer than ten cars zoomed by, no matter how vigorously I waved my flashlight. But someone must have taken notice, because soon a State Police car came flying the wrong way up the ramp, blue lights flashing. The officer, after ascertaining that no one was injured, helped me get the bike back up onto its two wheels. He was obviously concerned that I might have been too groggy to handle the bike, or was incapacitated in some way, because he stayed, talking, for some time. By this time, of course, I was wide-awake, and no longer in need of donning the electric vest. We visited for a few minutes, during which he told me that he was an MSF instructor, and so was especially concerned when he'd been told there was a "motorcycle wreck" on the ramp. A wreck of a motorcycle maybe, but not a wrecked motorcycle, thank goodness. I thanked him profusely for his help, and then remounted to go find a lighted parking lot in which to change the footpeg bracket. That parking lot was found within a few miles, and the broken bracket found its way to a dumpster. While there, I had to opportunity to help an elderly gentleman (and he probably was thinking that he was being helped by an elderly gentleman) who had no taillights on the back of his pickup. One of my fuses took care of the problem, along with some electrical tape to insulate the offending bare wire. It's nice to be able to pass on the help we get from others. The rest of the day was relatively uneventful, even including the rush hour traffic in the Miami area. Fortunately, I had paid close attention to recommendations of list members and kept moving at a reasonable pace all the way down to the intersection of the Sawgrass Expressway with I-75. That is, until I ran out of gas. Not really out of gas, as I discovered later, but at the time it appeared I was. There's something about Florida that doesn't agree with me and gas. Prior to this, the only time I've ever had to call AAA due to being out of gas was in 1989, just west of Orlando. That time my tank was dry, and the gauge and low fuel light had both been warning me for some time. But this time I knew I should have had a couple of gallons in my fuel cell. Nevertheless, there I was, stopped on the side of the freeway, waiting for a can of gasoline. Thankfully, the sun was low on the horizon, and there was a mild breeze blowing. In my full Roadcrafter, I was a tad overdressed for standing around on a warm Southern Florida evening. A few more miles that night was enough for me, and at Florida City I found an inexpensive motel with a restaurant nearby, and called it a day. Tomorrow would be corner Numero Tres (when in Cuba del Norte, speak as the Cubans…). When we were last with our two intrepid travelers, they were both in Florida. The bad news was - they each were unaware of the other's location. The good news was that one of them had been able to keep his bike from falling over for over 2000 miles! We rejoin the two somewhere in deepest Florida. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Tuesday, April 23, 2002 Florida City, Florida Checking my cell phone this morning, I found that Russ had left a message on my voice mail. He had continued on to Key West the night before and checked in to a motel along the beach, to which he gave me directions (which I promptly forgot). While the temperatures in this part of Florida were no higher than in many places I'd already been riding, the humidity was something I couldn't bear for long. There wasn't a hint of a breeze, and even in the cool of the morning, with the sun a barely visible blob above the murky horizon, I would perspire freely with the slightest exertion. Leaving the motel around 7:00 AM after a delicious breakfast at a nearby restaurant, I found myself moving along smartly behind what looked like a local delivery truck. At least he knew where it was safe to make good time, and when it was time to slow to the speed limit. Before leaving on this trip I had queried members of the list who either lived in Southern Florida or were familiar with the highway to Key West as to the speed one could expect to travel between Key West and the mainland. Everyone gave the same answer: Beware, as along that highway speed limits are heavily enforced. It was with pleasure that I noted the maximum presence of LEO's to be at either end, with much lighter enforcement through the middle section. After I lost my first local guide, I made it a habit to check out the license plate of the vehicle ahead of me. Florida is thoughtful enough to provide the name of the county on the bottom of the plate, which made it easy to determine when I was following a local by the word "Monroe" in that spot and, assuming that these drivers were familiar with speed enforcement patterns in their own locales, I depended upon them to provide me with a "rabbit" escort as I sought to get to Key West in the least amount of time. Thus enabled, I arrived at Key West over an hour ahead of my anticipated schedule. This system, along with my recent experience coming west, worked even better on my eastbound leg as I was able to make it from Key West to Key Largo in just 2 hours and 3 minutes. The early arrival allowed me time to visit the landbound buoy that marked the southernmost spot in this southernmost community in the Continental U. S., take the requisite photo, and then find the local post office from which to mail proof of my visit back to the Four Corners headquarters. While standing there in the parking lot next to my bike, I was approached by a local motorcyclist and we enjoyed a brief discussion of the joys of our mutual avocation. Then it was off to find Russ at the location which I was no longer able to recall. While riding around in this tourist trap town, I was amazed at the sheer numbers of scooters seemingly everywhere. As I drew closer to what I presumed to be the center of the "downtown" section of the city, pedestrian traffic became so heavy that vehicular movement was barely perceptible. I couldn't get away from here quickly enough! A reason to have two-way communications if there ever was one: Coming down Whitehead St. from the north in the heavy tourist traffic, turning left onto US-1 to get the h___ out of this hot, humid, and way-too-crowded tourist mecca, who do I see pulled up at the light, ready to make his own turn to the south but Russ! Too late for me to stop in the intersection, I rode half a block until I found a spot to pull up to the curb and waited. And waited. No Russ. No problem, we'd agreed to meet at the buoy at 12 noon, so off I went again. The time was about 11:45, so I only had to kill 15 minutes and we would meet up at the marker. At 11:55 I rode past the marker and around the block. Next time around the block, I found a spot within view of the marker and parked the bike. Russ should be showing up any time now. At 12:15, feeling that if a thermometer were stuck into my flesh it would register "well done", I elected to get moving toward the mainland. I dutifully left a message on Russ' voice mail, telling him what I was up to. Truthfully, any movement would be welcome, but from Key West any meaningful movement must be back toward the east. And it felt VERY good to be moving again. Now that I was back out on a highway again, it was possible to revert to contemplation mode. All along the keys, but in particular as I neared Key West, I had seen motorcyclists riding along, enjoying the weather just as I was. Almost to a person, they were in minimal clothing, and sans helmets. To them, I'm sure I looked to be the oddity. But having seen a few cases of road rash, I preferred the Roadcrafter and a helmet, along with a little discomfort the few times I was stopped. It was about 2:00 in the afternoon when I reached Tavernier and I hadn't eaten since breakfast, so I fueled the bike and then found a Waffle House. Until a trip to the south in 1988, I'd never heard of Waffle House. But they quickly became my favorite stop for a quick, fairly good meal, any time of day or night. An added bonus, they have some of the best iced tea to be found anywhere, and this was definitely an iced tea day. While eating, I kept a close watch on the highway, expecting to see Russ come through at any time, being quite sure that I was in front of him now. Finishing my meal with no sight of him, I resumed my travels to the mainland. Just as you're coming into Florida City from the south, Card Sound Road intersects US-1 to enter the city. All traffic coming off the keys must travel the short stretch of road, and then US-1 turns northeast, and 997 branches off to got due north for a ways. Knowing that Russ had to come through here eventually, I stopped in front of an adult beverage store with a large parking lot, left my Hi-Viz Yellow Roadcrafter jacket hung over the windshield, with the bike parked as near the highway as was safe, and waited in the shade, slapping the numerous flies that decided I was their evening meal. It was just over an hour before I saw him coming, but there was Russ, coming down the highway. And there was Russ, going on down the highway. I might have been invisible for all the notice I got. Hurriedly donning my jacket, helmet, and gloves, I took off in hot pursuit, never to see so much as a taillight again that day or the next. Oh well, we were again headed to the same place. Mike Sachs had offered to have his students swap tires and service the bikes of any ldriders who came through the Atlanta area, and we were taking advantage of his generosity. So that now became the goal. At this point I was in the mood to travel and get to some place cooler, so I actually welcomed the chance to make good time without needing to keep track of someone else, or him of me. For the most part, Russ and I were comfortable with whatever speed the rider in the lead would set, and had had no problems in that respect. But I knew that once I decided to let the Concours get into its power band, the Nighthawk would be working awfully hard to keep up. And once on the Turnpike, it would be time to make time. As luck (or poor planning on my part) would have it, I managed to hit the Miami area around rush hour again. Found myself taking the "scenic route" once, but got back onto the right road shortly thereafter and over onto the turnpike. Originally, I'd thought I would stay on I-95 to near Fort Pierce and then switch to the turnpike, as they are within sight of each other for most of that distance, and I-95 is free (a powerful incentive for someone as frugal as me). But once on the turnpike, I was glad I made that choice. Traffic was much heavier over on the interstate, and those of us on the turnpike were probably traveling 10 to 15 mph faster. And, there was virtually no LEO presence on the turnpike. The distance from Miami to Orlando was covered in a respectable length of time. With the sun over the horizon, this part of Florida had cooled to just about the perfect temperature, given my state of acclimatization, the gear I was wearing, and my rate of progress. It was a good time to be traveling. Surprisingly, there were fewer insects sacrificing themselves on my windshield than I would have expected, here in this warm, humid climate. Still, they managed to necessitate washing the windshield at every gas stop, something I'd been able to forego earlier in my ride. As I rode north on Florida's Turnpike north of Orlando, with traffic almost nil at this late hour, I wondered to myself if the travelers on this stretch of highway were out to make sure they got their money's worth from the tolls. Where traffic had been moving at a very respectable pace between the Miami area and Orlando, now it was moving at what could be called a blistering pace. Determined not to be rear-ended, I put safety first and foremost and kept up with traffic. There went my gas mileage again. Wildwood hadn't changed all that much since I used to stop here in my cross-country trucking days. It was about 11:00 PM when I pulled in there to gas up again and grab something at the Waffle House I'd eaten at several times in the past. Knowing I'd be riding all night, I wanted to be sure I was well nourished. Once again I took the time to enjoy a good meal and some delicious iced tea, and felt ready to continue on 'til daylight when I headed for I-75. Wednesday, April 24, 2002 I-75 North of Wildwood, Florida * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Observation: By the time we got to Key West, I had become acclimated to the high temperatures. Even though it was up to 93 F, I never felt the need of the Mira-Cool vest again. But that worked against me as I rode into Georgia late at night. Now I found I was ready to put on the Widder's when the temperature dropped to 60°F! No wonder those guys from the redneck belt sound like wimps. So was I after a few days exposure to the heat. My hat's off to those guys when they ride in sub-freezing temperatures - what a shock to the system it must be. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * As I rode on, crossing into Georgia, the evening chill became more pronounced. But to stop and dig out the electric vest and put it on was something I couldn't bring myself to do. How could I face myself the next morning, knowing I had become such a wimp that I had to wear an electric vest in south Georgia in April, after riding down the Alcan in below zero temperatures. So I did the next best thing and got out my thinsulate jacket and put it on. Still a bit chilly, but much better. Damn! Egos sure can be hard to live with, and harder to live up to. At Cordelle, Georgia, I stopped for an early breakfast, then continued on past Macon and up to the suburbs of Atlanta, where I found Mike's class at about 10:00 AM. Having made better time from Key West than I'd anticipated (I'd neglected to stop for a promised delicious oyster dinner along the east coast of Florida), I was here at DeKalb Tech a day early. "No problem", said Mike, "we'll get your bike in right away". And so they did. The rear tire had been shipped to Mike ahead of time, but the front tire was obviously not going to make the entire distance either. Mike called his local supplier and found a Michelin 100X in the size I needed. This was something I could grow accustomed to real easily - being treated like royalty. Many thanks to Mike and his students. Those students showed themselves to be both eager and well- taught. Although I kept an eye on everything that they did to the bike, I could have walked away and left the bike to them without a second thought, they were that thorough and conscientious. Mike is an excellent instructor, obviously. Russ showed up a little later, and we compared notes for a while, then he brought his bike in for new tires and service. After the fall in California, his needed a little more attention than did mine, and the men working on it did an admirable job. Late that afternoon we rode up the highway to Tucker, and got a room at the Masters Inn so we could get some laundry done and catch up on our rest. Thursday, April 25, 2002 Tucker, Georgia Today was spent in getting a few more items taken care of on Russ' bike and riding to lunch with Mike and friends in the afternoon. We had already checked out of our motel room, so when Mike finished work that evening we stopped by his place, and then all rode up to Marietta to enjoy a sumptuous meal with his friends, the Joiners. Ralph and his wife are touring riders themselves, with some impressive trips under their belts. So we enjoyed looking at each other's photos and comparing notes on various places we'd been 'til late in the evening. Another visit that was hard to end. Leaving our host's house shortly before midnight, Russ and I parted ways for a brief period. Due to a death in the family, he would ride east to North Carolina to attend a funeral, while I continued north toward our rendezvous in Dale City, Virginia. Thus I was off once more on a nighttime ride. It may well be that the novelty of riding when it is both dark and warm brings a fascination that keeps me wide-awake and alert. Whatever it is, darkness has never discouraged me from continuing on, so away I went toward Chattanooga. Friday, April 26, 2002 I-75 North of Marietta, Georgia Upon reaching the southern outskirts of Chattanooga, I realized that while I was still feeling fine and capable of riding for many more hours, if I were going to see any of the spectacular scenery I'd ridden to view along the Cherohala Skyway, it was time to stop and get some sleep so I could take advantage of the daylight tomorrow. So around 1:00 AM I found a room and settled in for half a night's worth of rest. Allowing myself the luxury of sleeping in the following morning, I was the next-to-the-last vehicle out of the motel parking lot. Ahhh, vacation life is good! While the sun wasn't shining brightly, at least it was neither raining nor snowing, so it was a good day for a ride. After a hearty breakfast, it was time for some sightseeing, along with a cautious look at Deals Gap and "The Dragon". Up I-75 to Sweetwater, then TN-68 over to Tellico Plains, where I got onto the Cherohala Skyway. As I watched the numbers on the GPS III+ altimeter rise, the numbers on the digital thermometer fell at a corresponding rate. Trying to remember the formula for adiabatic cooling with altitude gain, I began to see raindrops splashing off my faceshield. Now I began to wonder if I might yet see some more of the white stuff before the day was over. But with only a bit of hail as I surmounted the high point on the TN-NC border, I surmised that my former (bad) luck was now safely behind me. In retrospect, I believe it had taken a shortcut over the mountains, and was now waiting in ambush a few miles ahead. Fifteen short miles after entering the great state of North Carolina, I was on my side again. But at least this was different - for the first time since I bought it, my Concours was laying on its left side. And I'd only brought a right hand foot peg bracket. Oh well, even Boy Scouts sometimes find themselves unprepared. There's something about the sudden sound of plastic and steel sliding across asphalt that jars one out of the pleasant thoughts that usually accompany a leisurely ride through scenic countryside. Kind of an "Oh, s__t, here we go again" thought replaced the previous reverie. In the moments after picking myself up and dusting myself off, I pondered the lists of things I might have been doing wrong. The tires were both new, with just 250 miles since installation. But I'd already had the bike leaning farther over on earlier curves, attempting to get them scrubbed in before I had to resume a more frantic pace in the quest for the final corner of the tour. Walking back to where the bike first started making marks on the pavement, I saw where it slid from the wrong side of the center line out to the shoulder of this tight, left hand switchback, and realized that I had let the bike drift into the oncoming lane as I was looking over my shoulder to watch for oncoming downhill traffic. Grinding my boot sole into the asphalt, I could tell that traction was good there. But on the thick paint stripe, it was more akin to walking on wet floor tile. Simple carelessness on my part. Even putting along at a sensible, sightseeing pace is no time to let down one's guard when there are but two wheels underneath. Lesson learned, dues to be paid when the bills come in. Strap pieces to the bike, apply a little duct tape (I'm getting good at this now) and on to Deals Gap, where I would ride the 318 curves of US-129 with a greater humility and a new sense of vulnerability. Tip-toeing along at my rolling-roadblock pace enabled me to inspect this mountain motorcycle mecca, and to contemplate its magnetism, other than the claimed 318 curves in only 11 miles of narrow two-lane pavement. Coming from one of the most wide-open states in the wide-open West, I felt confined by the abundant foliage bracketing the roadway. In Alaska, we approach every curve with caution, as around each one there can be large rocks, huge RV's, or animals weighing more than a fully loaded touring bike and rider combined, with intelligence only slightly greater than that of the average RV's pilot. Here in these hills and hollers, every other curve was a blind one, and these daredevil sport bike riders must have a faith (unwarranted, I'm sure) in the ability of the drivers of oncoming vehicles that could move all the Smoky Mountains en masse. With deeply ingrained habits in full control, I accelerated boldly on the straight-aways, only to turn my brake rotors a cherry red as I came up to a corner. No more surprises, thank you. One sign of squidly behavior sticks in my mind: Dual skid marks ending at a bit of wreckage on a small hillside, with dark ashes and scorched tree trunks offering mute evidence that someone had taken the term "crash and burn" very literally. At long last, and yet in a way, too soon, the Dragon was behind me. Coming off The Dragon (where I must have set a new record for the slowest transit - had to pull off to let a Suburban get by) to the north, I elected to take the scenic route rather than head back to the slab at Knoxville. Thus I found myself winding along the Foothill Parkway, heading for its intersection with US-321, eventually coming to a bigger road at Pigeon Forge, TN. As I drew closer to this home of Dollywood, it was easy to see that tourism is alive and well in this neck of the Tennessee woods. Rural innocence but a thing of the past, and blatant commercialism running rampant. Although I had read of its scheduled occurrence months before heading off on this trip, the fact had slipped my mind. But now I was amply reminded that this was the site of the annual gathering of those- who-come-only-in-matched-pairs. Must have been thousands of them swarming up and down the surrounding roads. Enough accessory lights between them all to illuminate the north side of the Smoky Mts. And something I found a little odd - there were nearly as many riders on steeds whose owners were determined to save lives at the cost of eardrums. Guess the two-wheeled brotherhood proves engine oil is thicker than ... water-cooling. Crowds being anathema to me, I was soon back on I-40, and then I-81, with surprisingly light traffic for an interstate. There are those riders who find the superslabs something to be avoided at all costs. But here in Tennessee, as well as in parts of the neighboring states, these limited access highways allow one to cram more scenic miles into a few short hours than any other roadway. To me, the bucolic landscape brought back memories of a distant childhood, in which life was simpler; more relaxed. It was a pleasant interlude, a time of refreshing before diving back into the competitive world of the I-95 corridor. In addition, there was repair work to be done once more, thanks to the unforgiving North Carolina pavement. Leon Begeman had already been notified that I was on my way, and once again with a bike in need of Band-Aids. So I only rode as far as Glade Spring, Virginia, where I spotted a motel with a restaurant adjacent - just what the doctor ordered - and called it a day. Not the best day, but certainly not the worst. Saturday, April 27, 2002 Glade Spring, Virginia Knowing there was work to be done today, I was out of the motel and on the road just a little after sunup. Even skipped my breakfast routine in order to get moving sooner. This actually helped, as when I finally did stop close to noon, I was hungry enough to dispose of a good meal that kept me going the rest of the way to Dale City. Although I had been warned that in Virginia the speed limit was pretty strictly enforced, with the assistance of several rabbits who apparently weren't aware of that caution, I arrived at Dale City in good time and found Leon's house without a problem. Leon had warned me that I would be getting there in the midst of a family gathering, so I tried to be as unobtrusive as possible. But it's not in Leon's nature to leave a friend in need to his own devices, and he was helping me within minutes of my arrival. Where else but in the world of long distance riding would you find friends so willing to assist. Not only did Leon scrounge up every one of the needed parts long before I arrived at his house, but in just a few minutes Dale Horstman showed up, ready to tear into the familiar Concours as well. When I thought that everything that could be repaired had been repaired, Leon found a piece of clear plastic and fashioned a replacement for the missing Baker Air Wing that looked as good as the original. That's the kind of guy to have along on a long trip across the wilderness - or available to help on a long trip around the U. S. Thanks again, Leon and Dale. Not long before the repairs were completed, Russ pulled up at the curb, ready to resume our quest for the final corner. The sun was dropping toward the horizon when we pulled out and headed east to I-95. Nearly five years had passed since the last time I'd driven around D.C., but nothing had changed. It is still a mess. Nevertheless, we were soon north and on our way to Baltimore. Somewhere between the two cities the rain began. Softly at first, then with real intent. We'd been through this a couple of weeks earlier, on a similar highway in similar terrain, but there was something about the traffic on I-95 that differed from that on I-5, and we both felt that it would be safer to pull off and stop for the night. Maybe it was the fact that riding south from Seattle we were leaving the large cities behind and getting into the open country, and here we were heading into the largest metropolitan areas in the country, but there was just too much traffic and the visibility was too poor on this rainy night, so we found a motel that would allow our two sorry looking bodies to enter, and called it a night. Sunday, April 28, 2002 Elkton, Maryland With the deadline for completing the Four Corners Tour rapidly approaching, Russ and I were up with the sun - if there was a sun that morning. We switched on the weather channel, and watched closely. We were going to get wet this day, there was no doubt about it. Two separate weather fronts were moving eastward, directly in our path, and both carried heavy rain, according to the forecasts. Earlier, we had debated going directly up I-95, through New Jersey and then across the Bronx (on what has to be one of the worst pieces of pavement in the U. S.) to New Haven, Connecticut. My own preference was to go north around the Big Apple and cross the Hudson on the Tappan Zee bridge and miss most of the big city traffic. The weather made our decision for us. By turning onto I-476 at the southwest edge of Philadelphia, we were able to squeeze between the two weather fronts, even finding dry roads when we got to Scranton, Pennsylvania. But shortly after we turned east there onto I-84, we caught up with the backside of the first front. Thankfully, the rain wasn't terribly hard, and we only had to ride in light rain or drizzle the rest of the day. Traveling was good enough that just south of Worchester, Massachusetts, we left I-84 and got onto US-20 to follow a stretch of two-lane that I'd enjoyed in the past, and stayed on it until we rejoined the interstates by getting onto I-495 near Marlborough. We entered our eighth state of the day at Kittery, Maine, but ended up backtracking on US-1 across the bridge into Portsmouth to find a hotel. There is a fine looking Best Western that, surprisingly, welcomed a pair of wet, bedraggled bikers into its warm confines. The dry beds were a most welcome sight, and we retired for another good night's rest. Monday, April 29, 2002 Portsmouth, New Hampshire The view out the window that morning revealed the remnants of an early morning snowfall in the parking lot and on our bikes. We took time for a leisurely breakfast, served by a middle aged man who has to be in competition for the title of "grouchiest waiter in the state", then loaded the bikes for what we hoped would be our last day of riding on the Four Corners Tour. At this point we knew that all we had left to do was ride some 400 miles to Madawaska, Maine and we'd have finished, but only two days ahead of the deadline. The weather was 42°F and still a bit drizzly at 11:15 AM as we headed north on I-95, back into Maine. There was some construction that held our speed down, along with all the other traffic. Due to the drizzle and the congested traffic, I was riding with my modulating headlight on quite a bit of the time. It helped in those infrequent times we were able to do some passing. It was while I was following a dump truck through the construction zone at maybe two or three miles over the 45 mph speed limit that I suddenly saw flashing blue lights in my rear view mirrors. Hmmm, I was just keeping up with the flow of traffic, officer. As I pulled to the shoulder, I glanced up to see Russ carefully continue on by, as though he and I had never met. Thanks for the moral support, pal! I could imagine the razzing I would get later, and was mentally preparing a stinging rejoinder even as I took my helmet off. The officer's concern, it turned out, was my modulating headlamp. He explained that "alternating" headlights were only allowed on emergency vehicles in the state of Maine. Normally, I have a copy of the Executive Order legalizing modulating headlights right with my registration, and it might well have been at that moment, but I could find neither anywhere on the bike. Well, when you pack for a long trip, you're bound to forget something. Not wishing to spend time explaining the semantic difference between alternating lights and a modulated light, I first explained that the modulating light was perfectly legal on any U. S. highway, Maine's laws to the contrary notwithstanding. But then I assured him that just to please the him and any others of Maine's finest, I would refrain from using it while within that state. Not to be outdone, he explained to me that other motorists, upon seeing my flashing headlight coming up behind them, might mistakenly think I was a police officer. With a grin I responded, "Yep, they sometimes do - and pull right over. Sure helps get through traffic." He grinned back, we shook hands as I wished him a pleasant day, and we both proceeded on toward our respective destinations. We were nearing Yarmouth, just north of Portland, when Russ signaled that he needed to get off the interstate. Apparently his Honda was not running right. We pulled in to a local gas station and borrowed their Yellow Pages to look up Honda dealers. Lo and behold, there was an ad for Reynolds Motorsports - the same dealer that has perennially hosted an IBR checkpoint. A good chance they would be more willing to help a long distance rider than the run-of-the-mill neighborhood Honda dealer. So off we went to find Reynolds Motorsports of Gorham, Maine (but really Buxton, Maine - or is it the other way around?). Luckily, we found them. We must have had some pretty desperate looks on our faces, because they took Russ' Nighthawk in right away to check it out. While waiting for the mechanic to do the diagnosis, we walked in the drizzle up to the corner restaurant to have a little lunch. When we got back, Russ got the bad news - his bike was pronounced DOA. Seems the compression was way too low, and a leakdown test revealed it to be both rings and valves, with the rings being the worst. That meant at least re-ringing the pistons just to get it to run for a while longer. No time for that if we were going to finish the Tour. While waiting for the results, we had wandered around the huge inside showroom, looking at both new (wishfully) and used (less wishfully) bikes. Afraid of what the mechanic might find, Russ was considering the comparative merits of three of the used machines in what he felt might be his price range. The one that rated the highest was a '98 Triumph with side bags and tail trunk, and sharp looking to boot. Once he'd been told the Nighthawk wasn't going any farther without major surgery, he started looking for a salesman. Realizing that this could take quite a while, and watching the hour hand's steady advance, along with the darkening skies outside, I told Russ I would run on up to Bangor and wait for him there, in case he was delayed until late and wanted to stay over in a local motel. From there, I could also give him a weather and road report, as we were hearing rumors of snow to the north. Not delaying any further, I rolled the Concours out into the rain and headed by the quickest shortcut to I-95. It was raining steadily, and getting cooler, as I rolled up to the toll booth to get onto the Maine Turnpike. The toll taker said something I couldn't understand with my helmet on, so I removed it and asked him to repeat it. He said with a smile "No charge. Anybody riding a motorcycle on a day like this deserves to ride free". I grinned back, thanked him and, putting my helmet back on, got out of there before he had a chance to change his mind. Nearing Bangor from the west, there's a slight elevation gain before dropping back down into the Penobscot River valley in which the city is situated. For about two miles near the crest of this rise I was riding in light, but threatening, snow. Thankfully, it was left well behind and the temperature was back up to 36°F when I exited to the Bangor Mall at 6:15 PM. As I'd ridden north a few days earlier, I had recalled that a young lady of my acquaintance from Glennallen was going to college here in Bangor. So I phoned her father, a friend of mine back home, and found out where she was working and how to get hold of her. Turned out she, who is an absolute teetotaler, was working as a bartender at Ruby Tuesday's in the Bangor Mall. It was dinner time, I had worked up a pretty good appetite from the afternoon's ride, so as soon as I unloaded my things into a motel room, I headed over to eat. First, however, I called Russ to let him know where I was, the conditions I'd encountered on the way here from Buxton (or was it Gorham?), and the motel phone number. Having not the slightest inkling that I (or anyone else from Glennallen) was in the area, my young friend was delightfully surprised to see me. She even offered to buy my dinner (which offer, being the old-fashioned, chauvinistic male that I am, I refused). We had a most enjoyable visit, during which I was introduced to nearly every other employee of the establishment, and I got some photos of her mixing drinks to take back to Alaska for her parents to see. Later, back in my motel room, I kept expecting either the room phone or my cell phone to ring at any moment, with Russ on the other end telling me what time he expected to arrive in the morning. At the same time, I kept a watch out the window, just in case. Some time after 9:00 PM my vigil was rewarded, as I watched the double headlights of a motorcycle turn in to the motel parking lot. Intercepting Russ as he pulled up to the registration office on a shiny Triumph, we went inside and, being so happy to see that he'd made it on through, I paid for a separate room for him as well. We were going to make the final corner together, and on time! This time we left the bikes parked, and walked across the street to the Applebys so Russ could have some dinner. He hadn't eaten since our lunch together in Buxton, and was pretty hungry. I went along to hear about his afternoon. Between bites, Russ related what had gone on after I left. Once he got the purchase of the Triumph taken care of, he had to see what he could get out of the Honda. Turned out to be heartbreakingly little. One of the mechanics gave him $250 for it - less than he had invested in his auxiliary fuel cell, which he couldn't transfer onto the new bike. But despite the loss, I could tell Russ was happy with the Triumph, and wouldn't be missing the Nighthawk as we rode back west to Seattle. Tuesday, April 30, 2002 Bangor, Maine Today is the day! We're going to finish our Four Corners Tour. So it's taken us nearly the full allotted time, so what. We've had fun, seen a lot of country, met a lot of great people, and experienced quite a few new things (some of which we could have done without quite nicely). After breakfast and refueling the bikes, we hit the road at 9:30 AM with the sun coming up through a hazy sky and the temperature already up to 46°. Once north of Bangor, you start to feel like you're in the north woods of Maine. It even reminded me a little of some of the highways near Anchorage. We spotted a sheriff's car at the Howland exit, and no more LEO's until we were through Madawaska. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Observation: In order to avoid gaining undue attention from the local constabulary, it has become my habit as I travel to observe the customs of the area residents regarding strict (or not so strict) adherence to posted speed limits. The speed limit in Maine is obviously a matter of local interpretation. In the southern part, traffic seems to move at, or within 5 mph of, the posted limit. And no wonder, as examples of Maine's finest are seemingly omnipresent. However, as one moves farther north, and further from the large population centers of the Boston suburbs, it appears drivers are on the honor system, and LEO's are few, and VERY far between. The inevitable result is... highway anarchy (but rapid progress). Bowing to the wisdom expressed in the phrase "When in Rome..." Russ and I attempted to stay with the flow of traffic. At 80 or so we managed to keep most of the 18-wheelers in sight, but were occasionally passed by empty logging trucks. Once on US-1 out of Houlton, the rules changed. The speed limit dropped to 55 mph, and for a few miles it was observed. At first there were small towns in fairly close proximity, so that it was futile to build up speed, as it was soon time to slow for the next hamlet. It didn't take long to catch on to the technique employed by "Maine-iacs" of the region, to wit: One waited until his own vehicle was abreast of the lowered speed limit sign before releasing the throttle, not a foot sooner. The minor municipality was transited at a speed precisely 10 mph above that shown on the signs, and as soon as a sign showing a higher limit was viewed, that speed became the target. This rewarded those with superior eyesight and more rapid acceleration. Another peculiarity became apparent within a few dozen miles, that being that any driven speed MUST end with the numeral "5". For most lengths of the highway that simply meant adding the 10 mph mentioned earlier to the posted speed limit, i.e. 55 mph speed limits were driven at 65 mph. In the event some newly-graduated, inexperienced traffic engineer calculated the speed limit should be 50 mph, the locals took it upon themselves to correct this glaring error, and added the missing 5 mph to the 10 mph that was understood to be included in the "proper" speed, and still drove at 65 mph. It was obvious that the people of Maine have certain laws that MUST be obeyed, regardless of state statutes. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The ride from Bangor to Madawaska was pleasant and uneventful (which, in many cases, adds to its pleasantness). The sun was shining, although not brightly. The temperature was comfortable, and the highway was good, if not great. Russ was a little ahead of me arriving in Madawaska (now that he was riding the Triumph, that began to happen more often) and was parked in front of the post office when I rode up. I recorded the following in my log upon my arrival at the Madawaska P. O: Time: 14:15 EST, odo. 94765.6 (after leaving home with a reading of 84024.7), trip odo. 10,739, GPS 10,489. And there's still the little matter of the ride home. Thinking about it, I find I'm glad that there are still several thousand miles to go before I'm back home and the ride is over. It will still be a while before I begin suffering the letdown that accompanies parking the bike once more. The people of Madawaska lived up to the reputation that they seem to be gaining among the long distance motorcycling crowd. Several of the residents walked up to us, parked at the curb in front of the post office, and queried whether we were doing a Four Corners Tour. This is the only place we've been where the locals seem to have any knowledge of this event, and they seem to embrace it wholeheartedly. Perhaps they've felt neglected and forgotten way up there in northern Maine, and this tour is their one and only claim to fame. Regardless of the reason, we felt welcomed and appreciated by every one we spoke with. Photos taken, final proofs mailed off, visiting over, we rode farther into town and stopped at a Dairy Queen-type place (we couldn't stop at a real one, neither of us was riding a Gold Wing) to have some lunch. Checking our maps, and glancing at the sky to determine the potential weather, we decided to ride on west to Fort Kent, and then take Rt. 11 south through the middle of the state. It turned out to be a good decision, as it was a good road, and a most welcome respite from the interstates we'd been traveling on for too many thousands of miles already. All good things must come to an end, and at Sherman we rejoined I-95 to finish our ride back to the motel at Bangor, where we settled in for a good night's rest after our celebratory dinner. Wednesday, May 1, 2002 Bangor, Maine The feeling of elation at having completed the Four Corners is still with us, and we're feeling positive as we load up to head west. Russ has never been to Niagara Falls, and I haven't visited the site since October of 1997, so we're headed for that attraction next. At this point I haven't made up my mind positively whether to ride back to Seattle, or to turn north in North Dakota to take the shortcut home. I'm doing my best to rationalize the run across to Seattle as I'm wanting to prolong the trip as much as possible. Since I'd left my cold weather gear in Seattle, and it will still be a bit chilly on the Alcan, riding to get that clothing will probably serve as my excuse. As we ride back out of Maine and into New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and then New York, we both become aware of a change in our routine. Now, instead of Russ chuckling at me as I dispense large quantities of gasoline into my two tanks, we find we are having to stop at approximately 150 mile intervals for Russ to refuel. With the aux. fuel cell, I'm able to go twice as far without needing to stop. Revenge is sweet! We make good time westward, but still it's dark when we enter Buffalo on our way to Niagara Falls. As it has been for most of the past five days, rain is falling lightly, but next to the falls it is hardly discernible from the spray. We can't get out to Goat Island due to some ongoing construction, but we get down next to the American Falls for some photos, and then cross the Rainbow Bridge to view the falls from the Canadian side. We are fortunate in that we are here while the light show is going on, and enjoy the various colors illuminating the falls, the spray, and the mist above it all. It's late when we finally cross back into the U. S. and head for I-90 again. For most of this trip the GPS has been little more than an extra odometer, or a device with which I can mark the locations of our various spills. This night, however, it proves to have some practical application, as I take Russ on an unintentional midnight tour of downtown Buffalo, New York. That's what I get for being a cheapskate and wanting to avoid the toll on the short section of I-190 near the Peace Bridge. The gas wasted riding up and down streets, trying to find our way back out to the interstate, probably cost several times as much as the toll. But we did get to see a little more of the state of New York. WAY more than we really wanted to. Finally back on the interstate, we only rode until we spotted an exit with a motel near Hamburg, NY and decided to call it quits about half past midnight. Riding in the rain after being in it for most of the evening wasn't inviting enough to keep going. Besides, we had an appointment to meet Doug Grosjean Thursday afternoon in Clyde, Ohio, and we had plenty of time to get there after a good night's rest. Thursday, May 2, 2002 Hamburg, New York The rain hadn't stopped, but the temperature had raised one degree to 51°F by 9:15 AM when we mounted up once more for points west. The rain started to lessen as we neared Cleveland, and just a few miles west of the I-271 split we exited the interstate to find a place to have a meal and dry out. While dining, a gentleman came up to us and started a conversation. He'd pulled in to a parking spot next to our bikes and noticed the Alaska license plate on mine. As we were the only obvious motorcyclists in the place, he spotted us quickly. He questioned us extensively as to where we were going, where we had been, etc., etc. Asked if we were going to write a book about our trip. Uh, no. This is just another motorcycle ride, albeit a bit longer than most we take. Nothing to make a big deal of. We'll leave that to the guys who ride around the world, or from Deadhorse to Tierra del Fuego or something like that. Heck, we're just out having a good time. We were pleased to find that the rain had quit and the skies were looking brighter when we got back on our bikes. The weather continued to improve as we rode west toward Toledo, and our planned rendezvous with Doug Grosjean at the Clyde, Ohio Whirlpool offices where he spends his days. To get even with Russ for ignoring my plight as I pulled off the road at the insistence of the Maine trooper, I'm going to tell this one on him. After finishing lunch there in Ohio, we headed north a few blocks to get back on I-90. We had to cross over the interstate and go down the westbound on-ramp, as we were headed for the Toledo area and we were still east of Cleveland. However, I watched Russ, who was in the lead, turn east onto the eastbound on-ramp and proceed to accelerate as if to fetch something he'd lost back that way. Maybe the meal on an empty stomach had dulled his navigational senses, or perhaps he thought he might have missed something in our late-night tour of Buffalo and wanted to see it again. Anyway, I went to the bottom of the westbound on-ramp and waited a few minutes until he passed, now going in the proper direction. Doug knew we were coming, and came out to meet us shortly after we pulled up in the parking lot. He showed us a bit of what he did there - lots of neat CAD stuff with the computer - and then took us through the factory for the grand tour. Having been an appliance repairman in an earlier life, many of the pieces I saw were familiar to me. Made it that much more interesting. Watching the assembly processes was fascinating for someone of my bent. (Okay, "twisted" is more like it.) Doug had made arrangements with his S.O.., Sharon, that we would all join her at Dearborn, Michigan for a dinner party. Russ and Doug headed that way by one route, while I took another, a little farther west, in order to make a brief personal visit. It was still warm and light when we left Sharon's house together to convoy over to the "Transylvanian" restaurant. Now prior to this visit I'd always been impressed with Doug's obvious intelligence, both through private e-mails we had exchanged and from the many writings he has posted to various lists. But when we got inside the chosen dining establishment I began to wonder if something darkly sinister lurked just beneath the surface of this mild appearing rider. How would you feel if you'd been invited, all unsuspecting, to dine with the Adams family? Actually, we had a great time, sharing laughs among our small group, and with the restaurant staff, as we enjoyed a very good meal and great company. It may have been Sharon who wondered why she had agreed to join this bizarre fest as Russ and I, aided by Doug, shared some of our motorcycling "treasured memories". Once again, the clock betrayed us, and we headed out the door to the accompaniment of grateful looks from the staff. A round of photos in the parking lot, and Russ and I once again hit the interstate headed toward Seattle. Distance was not on the agenda this night however, as the heavy meal put us both in the mood to stop for the night. We made it west of Ann Arbor (where a serious accident on the interstate had closed a portion of I-94 and had us once again taking the Cook's Tour of a city we really had no desire to see) and upon spotting a motel near Exit 159, we called it a night. At our arrival time of 11:30 PM, the temperature was still 51°F, the exact temperature we'd started the ride in that morning. Friday, May 3, 2002 Chelsea, Michigan We're relaxed this morning, as we no longer have a schedule, and it is, once again, a beautiful morning. Finding a laundromat, we get our dirty clothes turned in to clean ones again. It was late - 12:20 PM - when we finally pulled out of Chelsea with our next planned stop at Don Damron's Fireside Inn over in Stevensville, Michigan. As we tooled west on I-94 into the city of Kalamazoo, we watched two sportbike riders pull onto the interstate to our right. Clothed in typical fashion - helmet, gloves, nondescript jacket, jeans, tennis shoes - they proceeded to cut through traffic in a manner guaranteed to irritate the cage drivers they were dodging, failing to use turn signals or common sense. They stayed on the interstate for about 4 miles, then exited in the same manner - cutting across several lanes of traffic just in time to get the off ramp. It was interesting to note, from our position in the hammer lane, that they had progressed to only about three car lengths ahead of us despite all their antics. My hope is that they live long enough to mature and learn to ride safely and responsibly. We found Don's fine dining establishment with no trouble, and sat down to enjoy a good meal. Our waitress found Don for us, and he joined us for some lively conversation while we ate. I'm going to blame Don for talking us into this, as it was during our delicious dinner that we decided to do a SaddleSore from Stevensville. There were no planned stops for either of us before Montana, we wanted to get across the Midwest as quickly as possible, and I-80 should provide the perfect venue for that attempt. Checking maps and GPS, it looked like the Wyoming border would be just about far enough. So when it came time to leave, we got out our SaddleSore witness forms (which I vainly carry with me on every trip) and had Don witness our starting odometer readings. He pointed out that his daughter, who had at one time had the distinction of being the youngest Iron Butt member, could have signed them as well. Had that fact occurred to us, we would have been honored to have her signature on the dotted line. It was a real joy to spend the time with Don and his daughter. But once again, the ticking clock was controlling our schedule, so off we went at 5:05 to fuel up and get our official starting time. In previous sentences I've noted my inability to cope with the documentation portion of an official Iron Butt ride, and it turned out this one was no exception - but I didn't discover that until it was too late to remedy the situation. Russ and I both rode a couple of blocks south on Red Arrow Hwy. to a large station to fuel up. We obtained our receipts and dutifully folded them and put them away for safe keeping. However, I failed to put on my reading glasses first so I could ascertain exactly what was printed on the slip. But the printout was over three inches long, and two inches wide, and filled with fine printing, so it had to have every bit of information I required, right? Or so I thought - for the next thousand plus miles. It wasn't until I sat down about 25 hours later, in a restaurant in Torrington, Wyoming, that I discovered there was no time printed anywhere on the receipt. Having traveled the route many times in the past 40 odd years, I am all too familiar with traffic in Chicago and its environs. And yet we managed to find ourselves crawling from Indiana toward the Illinois line as part of a 10,000 vehicle creeping mass, with the temperature only slightly lower than what we had experienced in Houston and Florida. Perhaps in the future I should consider such things before heading out to do a 1000 mile day. To complicate matters, the cooling fan on my bike refused to come on, leading to the temperature gauge climbing into the red, and coolant spitting out onto the hot pavement. Once again we found ourselves clear over to the left hand side of the pavement, which on this portion of interstate is akin to riding through a trash heap rather than the rain-washed cleanliness of northern I-5, where I'd found myself in a similar situation nearly a month earlier. After letting the engine cool for a bit, we decided to chance moving forward again, looking for the nearest exit to get onto a surface street where we could expect to move occasionally to aid in cooling the radiator. As good fortune would have it, we had to ride less than a mile to get to Exit 2, and got onto US-41 which took us south to US-30 where we were able to resume our westward direction. By shutting the engine off at stoplights, and keeping the bike rolling whenever possible, we were able to make it west to US-45 where we turned north to rejoin I-80 and get back up to a comfortable speed. From then on, we had but one goal - get to Wyoming by tomorrow afternoon. In my days of being chased back and forth across the country by a 48' semi-trailer I had carefully measured the differences in time and miles around or through most major cities from coast to coast, and found that experience proving useful as we neared the Quad Cities region on the Mississippi River where it divides Illinois and Iowa. We stayed on I-80 and circled to the north, and before we realized it, were headed west again in Iowa. It was just 10 minutes before 10:00 PM when we crossed into Iowa, and we continued to make good time as we made our way toward Nebraska. At Exit 220, near the town of Williamsburg, we stopped to fuel up. It was somewhere to the west of there that I recall being passed by a car with Alaska plates. Well, what better rabbit than one of my countrymen - so I set off in hot pursuit. This was even more than Russ felt comfortable with apparently, as his headlights began to diminish in my rearviews. Checking my speedometer, I realized that my fellow Alaskan was probably in a much bigger hurry to return to the state than I was, and reduced my speed to something less likely to prove instantly fatal in the event of a mishap. Can you believe it? The restaurant at the Flying J, where I've faithfully eaten a meal every time I pass through the area, is closed when we arrive just after midnight. So we made a u-turn and went back to the Pilot truckstop we'd passed up a few miles north. Sure enough, the fairly heavy meal this late at night made me drowsy, and in less than fifty miles I spotted a rest area and pulled in for a 2 hour nap. This was one of those times when the difference between riders worked against us, as Russ was still wide awake and ready to keep riding. He stopped too, however, and we both got some sleep, although mine was fitful due to the cool temperature. At 03:45 we were back on our bikes and headed west once more. We crossed the Missouri River into Nebraska at 5:15 AM and made it another 16 miles before I was once again overcome by a case of the drowsies and we stopped for another brief nap. This time Russ was able to sleep quite well apparently, as I had a bit of trouble waking him once I was ready to travel again. We made it as far as the Petro Truck Stop at Exit 353, near York, Nebraska by 8:30 AM, and stopped there for breakfast. It had warmed up to 54°F by this time, with the sun starting to come up behind us through a slightly hazy sky. Although it isn't something I usually have, a cup of coffee helped to get me back on schedule and ready to put some miles behind us once we were back on the interstate. As we make our weary way across Nebraska toward the Wyoming line, I'm aware that this Saddlesore attempt, taking place on the interstates here in the Midwest U. S., is probably the most difficult one I've ridden. The miles slowly added up as we continued across this flat stretch of landscape. While seemingly featureless to the casual glance, I enjoy it, as I remember various points from many earlier trips across I-80, and years before it, on old US-30. In fact, when I travel through here by myself, I often get off the slab and take the two-lane for a change. It has hardly changed in the more than 45 years since I first came across it, headed for a summer ranch job in Oregon. I enjoy pleasant memories, and some not so pleasant, but soon they are all left behind as we leave I-80 at Ogallala to take US-26 into Wyoming. This is another highway that I frequently travel, ever since a vacation trip with three teenage stepchildren as we returned home to Alaska. With 3 teen aged siblings in a car together for an extended period of time, it is imperative that they have something to do. So we retraced the Oregon Trail - as much as we were able - from Jefferson City, Missouri to Oregon City, Oregon. Along this stretch of US-26 from Ogallala to past Guernsey, Wyoming, there are many historic sites (and sights) related to that famous trail from the early days in our nation's history. Even the kids were fascinated by the things they saw and the places we visited. It was just after noon local time when we left Ogallala, but that meant it was 2:00 PM in Stevensville, Michigan, two time zones east of us. That gave us but 3 hours to make the 155 miles to Torrington. Not a problem so long as all went well. Having been over this road several times, I wasn't worried, and felt we would be able to keep our speed up enough to maintain at least a 55 mph average - that would get us there within the allotted time. As a matter of fact, we had a sufficient cushion when we neared Chimney Rock, one of the major landmarks along the Oregon Trail, that we sidetracked a couple of miles to stop and take some touristy photographs of the sight from a distance. Leaving there, we were within 55 miles of Torrington, and had just over an hour to get there. We crossed the line into Wyoming at 2:48 MDT and 11 minutes later pulled up to the gas pumps at the first station we came to in Torrington. Making sure the receipts had the correct time on them, we realized that we had completed the 1000+ miles just under the wire - twenty-three hours and fifty-five minutes since we had fueled up in Stevensville. That's cutting it close. We talked one of the clerks in the convenience store into coming outside to witness our odometers and sign the witness forms. Then Russ, who had friends to visit in Montana, hit the road again while I walked over to the restaurant with all my paperwork for the ride, and sat down get everything ready for submission to the IBA while I waited for my meal. It was while doing that, that I discovered the lack of a time stamp on my starting receipt. The lack of proper documentation for the ride doesn't bother me all that much. It seems failing to properly document rides has become a habit for me. So after dinner I get back on the bike with a destination in mind, yet subject to change along the way. But as the miles go by, I decide to continue as planned, and keep going until I get to Buffalo, Wyoming, where I find an EconoLodge with nearby restaurants. This will serve as the starting point for some riding I have in mind for the morrow, weather in this high country permitting. Sunday, May 5, 2002 Buffalo, Wyoming If I had to live somewhere other than Alaska (not a thought I wish to dwell on), northern Wyoming is one of the few places I would consider making my home. Here in Buffalo, the Big Horn Mountains loom to the west, and the Black Hills are less than a day's ride to the east, as inviting a set of roads and scenery as you'll find almost anywhere. It was a mild morning as I headed west across I-25 and up into the mountains with the small town of Worland as my destination for now. Climbing toward the summit, I met quite a few riders headed the other way, and wondered to myself if there might not be an organized ride going on. Or maybe these local motorcyclists were just as eager as I was to get out and enjoy the good weather. The last time through this area I'd crossed from west to east through Shell Canyon, and now I wanted to take a look at Ten Sleep Canyon, which lays a few miles farther south. On the way, I rode over Powder River Pass, where the weather was cool (38°F) and the skies were cloudy overhead. The requisite photos taken, I descended through the Canyon and then through the sleepy little town of Ten Sleep. Again, there was what appeared to be a disproportionate number of two-wheeled vehicles gathered at cafes and bars for a town of this size. Couldn't blame them at all. Stopping to fuel up at Worland, with the temperature up to 73°F now, I got to enjoy this ranching town for a few minutes, and wondered what it would be like to live here year around. Probably just as well that I was just passing through on a day with good riding weather, as I can remember some days, crossing Wyoming on I-80 in the winter, when a person wouldn't have wanted to be outside at all. From Worland, it wouldn't have been but a short ride south on US-20 to Thermopolis and the famous hot springs there. It was tempting, but the anticipation of Shell Canyon was too much, and I instead turned north toward Greybull, where a right turn in the middle of town would take me toward the dot on the map named Shell, and its namesake canyon carved deep into the west side of the Big Horn Mountains. As I came out of the upper end of the narrow canyon, the wind picked up, blowing from the southwest rather briskly, driving scudding rain clouds past the surrounding peaks, and even blowing veil rain toward the ground, which it never contacted due to the dry winds blowing across the terrain. I've been here in nicer weather, but there's something about foul weather that attracts me, and I stood next to the bike for a while, watching it. Then a couple of photos, and back onto the Concours to see what else awaited us. It had been my hope when I started out this morning to be able to ride up to Burgess Junction and then ride back west on US-14 Alt to connect with US-310 and enter Montana via that route. But when I got to the junction, I saw several feet of snow just past the Bear Lodge Resort , with the road plowed out only as far as their parking lot. That meant I'd go on over Granite Pass and get back onto the interstate at Ranchester. Oh well, it had been a pleasant interlude while it lasted. The lights of Billings were inviting as I stopped there for dinner and gas. But it was not yet 6:00 PM when I was ready to go again, and I really wanted to get as far as Butte before the weather turned nasty again. According to weather reports I had seen on TV the previous evening, a snow storm had come through the area the day before, and another one was on the way. Livingston and Bozeman were similarly inviting as the evening turned into night, but I had slept in late this morning and was feeling fine, so onward I rode. There was snow on the road, and some serious snow flurries in 33°F temperatures as I climbed in the dark toward the top of the Continental Divide just before dropping down into Butte. At one point I had to stop between snow squalls and clean off my windshield and faceshield so I could see the road. The road continued to wind toward the top, and I wondered how much colder it would get as I climbed, and if I would have to turn back to one of the spots that had seemed so alluring earlier. The sign marking the summit of the pass and then the highway descending back down the west side were both welcome sights, and I was glad both that I had continued on this far before calling it a night, and that Butte was no farther than it was. It was slightly warmer - 35°F here in Butte when I arrived at 10:15 PM, but I knew that could change before morning. At least I was where I could relax for a day or two if the weather forced me to stop. Monday, May 6, 2002 Butte, Montana Fortunately, only a light dusting of snow fell this morning, so I brushed it off the bike cover and took the cover up to my room to dry while I walked to the nearby restaurant for breakfast. By the time I had checked out of the motel and had the bike ready for travel again, it was 10:45 and the temperature had climbed to 41°F. Still, as I rode north and west toward Missoula and another climb and pass through mountains, I found myself ducking in and out of snow squalls and even one ground-whitening hailstorm. Not too strangely, I found mine to be the only motorcycle on that stretch of highway that morning. Then again, Russ might be just ahead or just behind me. Wherever he was, I hoped that he was enjoying weather as good as, or better than, this which I was riding through. Progress was steady, as I had heard of a major snowstorm headed toward Butte, and I wanted to get out of the Rockies and down to a lower elevation before I found myself stuck here for two or three days. As I zipped past Missoula I noticed the clouds ahead appeared to be getting thicker and darker. Lookout Pass was getting to be more of a long shot. The last 5 miles of the climb to the top were the worst for me, as the temperature had already dropped to 32°F and the drizzle that was falling at lower elevations had turned to a light snowfall. Just as I neared the top at 2:00 PM, with the temperature now down to 30°F and snow coming down steadily, I pulled in to a roadside rest area and took a couple of photos. Now that I was at the top, and it was literally all down hill from here, I could breathe easy. Sure enough, the run down past Kellogg, Idaho, then back up over Fourth of July Pass and back down again through Coeur d'Alene and into Post Falls was nice, with dry roads most of the way. But while I was inside getting some snacks after fueling up at the Chevron station, a hailstorm hit the area and deposited nearly half an inch of the little white balls on the ground in about five minutes. I made that gas stop last a good, long fifteen minutes. Now that I was out of the mountains, the pressure was off to get somewhere other than where I was, so the ride over to Spokane was done at a more relaxed pace. While the temperature there was relatively mild at 52°F, there was a pretty stiff breeze blowing from the northwest. Past the city and headed southwest on I-90, I started thinking about Snoqualmie Pass ahead, and wondered what shape it might be in. There's a westbound rest area a few miles before Ritzville, and I pulled in there to see if I could check on road conditions ahead. This was around 4:30 PM and I knew it would be dark before I got beyond Ellensburg and started back up into the Cascade Range. The report I heard was that the temperature was 33°F and there was slush on the road. Not impassable at that time for a motorcycle, I thought, but what might it be like 3 or 4 hours later? Especially with a storm coming off the Pacific and headed this way. I already knew what snow looked like, and I knew how bikes behave in snow, I didn't need to ride 2 or 3 hours to find out. So I wimped out again and headed south on US-395 toward the Tri-Cities. Now some folks don't care for deserts, they're too dry and dusty. But when you want to avoid precipitation, a desert offers the best chance of doing so. Just as when I headed for Cache Creek up in British Columbia when I was tired of seeing snow, so I headed for the driest area I knew of now. While it didn't warm up a lot - it was still only 56° when I rode through Kennewick - there was a pleasant dryness to the air that I reveled in. Across the mighty Columbia River into Oregon, and then down I-84 a few miles to the small community of Boardman where I found another EconoLodge with an adjacent restaurant, and I felt it was time to stop, as I had used up my good weather luck for the day. Tuesday, May 7, 2002 Boardman, Oregon There's nothing like turning on the motel TV to find out that the weather behind you is far worse than the weather ahead of you. Spokane had received 8 inches of snow overnight, Lookout Pass 13", Butte 10", and places in between had similar amounts. There wasn't even any rain predicted for Portland, my next destination. My decision to hurry out of that area yesterday turned out to have been a good one, and I was happy with the route I would be riding for the rest of this day. The temperature had only dropped to 54°F this morning, and it felt warmer as I walked next door for breakfast. At 10:20 I was out on I-84 headed toward Portland. The day grew progressively brighter and warmer as I rode down along the Columbia, through the Gorge, and on past the string of Oregon State Parks that line the south side of the river, stopping occasionally to take photos. It was as I was nearing Multnomah Falls that I looked up and saw snow falling on some of the peaks high above the interstate. And yet it was warm and bright where I was riding. I can handle snow just fine under those conditions. Just after 1:00 in the afternoon I found myself crossing the Columbia again as I entered the state of Washington on I-205. A few more miles and I stopped to call Ron Smith and let him know I was headed his way. It was necessary for me to swing by his house to pick up my cold weather gear, and from there we would ride up to Cafe Veloce for dinner. Ron would try to contact another rider or two to see if anyone could join us. Traffic was at its heaviest as I made my way past Sea-Tac and turned off onto I-405 toward Renton. Fortunately, the HOV lane was lightly traveled and I was able to maintain a good speed as I hurried to get to Ron's house without being too late, the way I usually seem to be. Our timing was great, and we got to the restaurant around 7:00 PM and proceeded to sit down to a delicious meal. Cori Phelps was able to join us a little later, and Ron and I got to listen to some of her recent adventures aboard her Yamaha. She has some very interesting stories to tell, and is good at recounting them. But here in Washington the same problem arose that had plagued me all around the country - that of too little time to spend with the folks I most enjoy spending it with. Soon it was time to part company and head north toward home. On the way across from Maine I had decided that so long as I was going to get all the way back to Washington before turning north, I would go right back to where it started - the Blaine Post Office. So after Cori, Ron, and I said our good-byes, that's where I headed. Got my unofficial finish photo from within a few feet of where this ride had started a month previous, and then said a sad farewell to my Four Corners Tour as I turned east to cross the border at Sumas. Finding no likely looking motel around Sumas, I proceeded to cross the border into Canada and found one within a few moments at Abbottsford, British Columbia. A good night's rest, and I could begin a serious quest for the home state. Wednesday, May 8, 2002 Abbottsford, B.C., Canada With the exchange rate between U. S. and Canadian money being so favorable to U. S. citizens right now, it's pretty easy to justify a hearty breakfast when dining north of the border. So I splurged. Afterward, waddling over to my room to finish packing, I mused on how I enjoy traveling in Canada. The weather is good as I head east on TC-1 this morning. It continues to stay dry until I get past Hope and there is a brief light shower before it dries up again, to stay that way all the way up to Prince George. Past Spences Bridge a few miles, I find a roadside stand open as I ride past it. Realizing that I probably won't see one again on this early spring trip, I backtrack a few miles to stop in and buy some fruits and a bottle of juice. Then it's on up through Cache Creek and to 100 Mile House for my first gas stop. It's along here that I notice there is no power to some of my electrical accessories, so I pull in to the little park and historic museum at 108 Mile House to do some repairs. This necessitates removing the seat, which in turn necessitates removing the auxiliary fuel tank. Pretty soon I have parts sitting in a circle around the bike while I search for the problem. Turns out a blade type fuse protecting the power distribution panel has a little corrosion on it, just enough to stop voltage from getting through. A thorough scraping with a jackknife blade was all it took to insure I'd have toasty hands and an illuminated thermometer all the way home. One of the reasons I'd elected to stop here at 108 Mile House, even though the weather was still pleasantly warm, was the gathering of heavy gray clouds ahead of me. But thankfully the threatened rain never materialized, so I rode on to Prince George and got a room. It wasn't that I was too tired to continue riding, rather it was just that I was in no hurry to end this trip, so I was taking all the time I needed to get back home. There was a mock-Oriental restaurant (run by real Orientals) next to the motel, so that's where I had my dinner. Seems there are a lot of so-called Oriental dining establishments springing up all over, but only a few of them have really good, traditional Oriental dishes. But it beat starving, and I didn't feel like riding around Prince George trying to find the best place. Next time I'll see if I can't schedule a dinner stop farther north in Chetwynd and sample the highly recommended cooking at the Chinese restaurant there. Thursday, May 9, 2002 Prince George, B.C., Canada While a restaurant specializing in Oriental food is not my first choice for a good breakfast, it beats Eggs McScrambled. The personal refueling done, there was nothing to do but load the bike, top off the fuel tanks, and head northeast for the Alcan. South of Prince George I had noticed the lakes were all opening up with the warm days of spring. Here at the slightly higher elevation, and somewhat higher latitude, the lakes were turning dark as their surfaces prepared to thaw, and there was occasionally some open water along the edges, sure signs that spring would reach here as well. Having been in a bit of a hurry the previous month, southbound, I now took a closer look at my surroundings as I rode along in the sunlight. The Hart Hwy. has seen a lot of changes in the 40 years since I first traveled it. More homes and businesses, pavement where then there was gravel, and even commercial electricity with poles and wires announcing to one and all that civilization had come to this far northern wilderness. With the sun rising toward its zenith, its warming rays brought a spring-like quality to the air and I found myself wishing the day could go on and on in this same manner. The two-lane highway had little traffic, and compared to the interstates and large cities I had been riding through just a few days prior, it seemed I had the road to myself - just the way I like it. Arriving in Chetwynd just after lunch time, I filled the tanks once more and made the decision to take BC-29 north - also known as the Hudson's Hope Loop - to intersect the Alcan at about MP54 and shave off 29 miles as I bypassed Dawson Creek. This road twists and winds, climbs and descends, as it passes through the historic town of Hudson's Hope and then follows the mighty Peace River - the only river to breech the Rockies - on its way to join the Alaska Highway north of Fort St. John. It was while traveling through the Peace Valley that I watched the odometer turn to all zeroes as it recorded the first 100,000 miles in its busy life. This didn't really impress me all that much, as the bike has traveled over 40,000 miles with various problems that kept the odometer from advancing. In reality, it now is approaching 150,000 miles of travel, and seems to be prepared to add that many more before calling it quits. Before I was really ready for it, the stop sign appeared that signaled the intersection with the Alcan, the next-to-the-last highway I would be traveling on my way home. Shortly after I turned north once again, I remembered that I had told Doug Grosjean that I would give him a call once back on the Alcan safely, so I pulled over to the side of the road to take advantage of the last cell phone reception I would have until Whitehorse. Five minutes later, I was rolling on the throttle again, with plans for a final overnight stop at Fort Nelson that evening. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Observations: The Alcan On my first ever drive up the Alcan (officially, the Alaska Highway) it was very much a wilderness drive over a definitely wilderness highway. It was January 1962 and, returning from a 30-day leave to back Fort Richardson just outside Anchorage, I found a brand new compact Mercury two-door that needed to be delivered from Detroit to the Avis car rental franchisee in Anchorage. Picked up the car in Detroit on January 2nd, with 26 miles on the odometer (I still have the log of that trip). I was allowed 4000 miles for the drive, but as I wanted to swing out through Seattle to pay a visit to some friends there, I disconnected the speedo cable in Minnesota and gave the car an extra 2000 break-in miles, at no extra charge. Rather generous of me, in my unsolicited opinion. Roads I hardly recognize these days for all the population growth, were gravel and lonely 40 years ago. The afternoon and evening before I arrived at Dawson Creek and the beginning of the Alcan, I spent driving through the worst snowstorm I have ever been in (and I've seen a quite few in my time). No snow tires or tire chains to be had in the diminutive 13" tire size that was just becoming available on American cars. Fortunately, the car didn't have enough power to spin the tires, so it just kept going. By the time I got to Prince George, all the other traffic going my direction had pulled off at hotels and motels to escape the terrible driving conditions, save one traveling salesman from Vanderhoof, and a fellow in a Mercedes sedan. We'd been keeping each other company for over a hundred miles by then. Later that night, sleeping in the passenger seat alongside the Hart Hwy., nestled down in my sleeping bag, it dropped to -42°. When I turned the radio on the next morning a little before dawn, the only station coming in was KXEL in Waterloo, Iowa with its country music (we called it hillbilly back then) disc jockey. When I heard it, I remembered my uncle, living on his ranch farther west in B.C., telling that they listened to that station more than any of their local ones. Back then the Hart Hwy. was all gravel, and there was virtually no traffic on it that time of year. A cow moose was trotting up the road ahead of me at one point, and I guess I was "herding" her a little too closely, as she suddenly skidded to a stop, and turned to come directly at me. Visions of moose hooves thundering down all over that little car had me wishing I'd been a more patient. But she veered to one side, and passed within inches of the side of the car as she strode defiantly back whence she came. When I started breathing again, I proceeded toward Dawson Creek, in less of a hurry. Leaving Dawson Creek, I had noticed literally hundreds of snowshoe hare carcasses flattened all over the highway for miles. Thought it very strange, and read in the Alaska Sportsman magazine some months later that it was due to the hare population being at its peak that year causing that particular phenomena to occur. Never seen anything like it since, anywhere. In the ensuing years, the Alcan has been tamed to a large degree. Trutch Mt. has been bypassed, although the old highway leading to it can still be seen to the east for several miles. The original builders had neither the time nor the equipment to haul in the fill that the present highway needed to traverse the swampy ground it now crosses. Steamboat has but a hint of the twists and turns, along with steep grades and drop-offs without guardrails, that used to cause panic in the flatlanders who found themselves facing it, especially when rain turned the gravel surface to slick mud. The road over Summit is still pretty much the way it was gouged out of the rock walls some 60 years ago, but at least now there are guardrails along the side next to the canyon. Not always a good idea in my estimation. Before they added all the guard rails to highways here in Alaska, you could be pretty sure that by the second serious snowfall of the winter, the poorest drivers had been weeded out, and you felt a lot safer knowing it was the more skilled survivors who were approaching you in the other lane. Nowadays the Alcan is, to a great extent, a good paved two-lane highway through what is still wilderness for the most part. The Canadians have done an admirable job in designing their highways, and have preserved the feeling of traveling through pristine wilderness even while motoring down a wide scenic highway at freeway speeds. In addition, the people who populate this highway seem to be of a special breed. For the most part very friendly and helpful, yet with the same streak of independence that I observe in my fellow Alaskans. No better place to get in a bind, because these folks have seen it all, and know how to fix it. Just be patient, because if the fish are biting up the road, your problem may have to wait. This stretch of road remains one of my favorite rides or drives, winter or summer, and probably will remain so for my lifetime. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The ride up to Fort Nelson was warm, pleasant, and uneventful. Just the kind I like. Rolling into Fort Nelson at around 7:00 PM, it was still a long time 'til sundown. With the vernal equinox over a month past, the days here were noticeably longer than those in the South 48 states. First finding an overpriced motel, I checked in, and then took a half mile walk to one of the few restaurants to stay open this late. After riding all day, it felt good to stretch my legs, and after the hefty meal I ate, I needed to expend some more calories. Getting back to the motel, I found that a strange looking vehicle had arrived, with the owner staying in a room near mine. Seeing the owner outside, cleaning his rig, I walked up to him and introduced myself. He identified himself as Joe Garcia, from Santa Fe, New Mexico. The trike he was riding/driving had been built by himself and a partner, who did this for a living at a business called The Fab Shop. It had a built-up 454 Chevy big block, Turbo-Hydramatic, Buick rear axle with dual rear tires, and pulled a small utility trailer. Judging by the number of locals who drove by to gawk at it, the trike had attracted a lot of attention coming into town. Joe and I visited for a while, and then I retired earlier than I might have, as I knew tomorrow was going to begin the big push for home. Friday, May 10, 2002 Fort Nelson, B.C., Canada It's time to end this ride and get back home, so I'm down at the office and helping myself to some of the "continental breakfast" food shortly after 6:00 AM. Then out of the motel and headed north well before 8:00 AM. Joe's trike is still in front of his room, but he's out and packing as I pull out. It's cool, and there are clouds up ahead, but it's still dry as I make time toward Steamboat Mountain, Toad River, Muncho Lake, and the other waypoints along the Alaska Highway. Memories of delicious pies lure me in to Trapper Ray's Liard Hot Springs Lodge, but I make it a quick stop as there were a few drops of rain on the windshield just as I neared the Liard River crossing. Buttoned up for rain, I again hit the road with Watson Lake and fuel as my next destination. Joe passed the lodge on his trike just as I was finishing my travel preparations, so I hurry to catch up in order to have a little company for a few miles of this lonely road. Pretty soon I run into a little more drizzle, and find that Joe has slowed down. With no windshield and no protection from the wind trying to blow up his pants legs, he's not enjoying the rain. I pass him, knowing I can't afford to dilly-dally if I want to get on home without another overnight stop. Around 60 miles before Watson Lake there's some construction that was started last summer and, hopefully, would be completed later this summer. But as I ride over it, all I find is washboard gravel, with windrows of loose crushed rock between the tire tracks. Slowing down to a speed at which I can control the bike fairly well yet still have the advantage of gyroscopic stability from the tires, I bounce along, ducking from flying stones whenever I meet an oncoming vehicle. There's been no rain in this area, so dust is another nuisance. There are scraggly black spruce trees growing fairly close to the highway, and I'm riding slowly anyway, so I stop to use the natural "facilities" just inside the cover of the trees. While I'm so stopped, Joe and his trike nearly catch up with me, and I watch his progress in my rear view mirror as I get under way once again. Apparently the trike doesn't like the washboard any better than my Concours, as he travels even slower than I do while on it. Pretty soon the gravel ended and the pavement resumed, so I was able to hurry on to Watson Lake for my next fuel stop. Joe rolls into the Tags station as I'm fueling, and tells me that he has had enough for the day. He looks cold, and admits that the weather has drained the energy from him, so he'll get a room here and regain some energy again tonight. It's only 3:15 PM, and I'm not interested in stopping, so I bid Joe farewell and get out onto the highway, headed west toward Whitehorse. When I get to Rancheria, about 75 miles from Watson Lake, I see that the lodge is now open, so I stop in for a hot meal, knowing that it may be my last for a while. A sudden rain shower dumps on me as I'm getting the bike parked, and I see snow clouds up ahead. Nevertheless, I am determined to enjoy a leisurely meal, even as I scan every southbound vehicle for signs of snow packed on their rear end. After eating, there's nothing to do but get back out onto the highway and find out what sort of conditions await me. One of the things I've learned about the Alcan from years of traveling it - the weather can change drastically within a few miles, then change back again in the next few. Although there was snow falling on both sides of me, and sometimes both ahead of and behind me, I was happy that none fell where I was. Being that the highway from Rancheria to Whitehorse is in good condition and traffic was very light now that it was getting past the hour when most locals were traveling home from their jobs, I was able to make very good time as I traveled west and then northwest toward the Yukon's capital city. As I pass the Nabesna Road at MP60 I am tempted to turn and ride up to my house to check how it has fared through this past winter. But it's time I face the inevitable conclusion of this ride and put it behind me, so I continue on toward Glennallen. Entering the town, I spot familiar vehicles with familiar faces peering out from inside. Under the coating of Shakwak mud, neither the Concours nor I are recognizable, so my waves go unreturned. Still, it is good to be home, if only to give me the opportunity to prepare for a future trip. Pulling up in front of the apartment that I've referred to as my temporary home for the past seven years, I start removing luggage and accessories, and carry them inside to be sorted through over the course of the next week or two. There are many little, seemingly insignificant souvenirs of the past 5 weeks in there. Each one, as I pull it out, will evoke some memory of a place, person, or time that I will savor. Most will have to be deposited in the round file, but for a few moments they will serve a higher purpose. Long before I got back here I knew that this experience was too good to let it be the only one like it, and while riding along I've been planning for future trips. Maybe a Four Corners Tour starting in Maine in December? The 48 states plus Alaska in 10 days ride, but with a start at Alcan, the U. S. Customs station on the Alcan Hwy. at the Yukon border? And another Crawfish Boil - definitely! While I may or may not ever do another long ride, there's nothing to stop me from dreaming. Most who read this understand the passion that drives a rider to continue when most others would stop, or at least look for a place to spend the night, waiting for conditions to improve. The hardships, the discomfort - they're all a part of the whole experience of long distance riding. Why would someone want to leave out an important portion of his experience? As with most men who live by choice in rural Alaska, I love the outdoors. Travel is one of my main passions as well. Motorcycle touring gives me both of these things in abundance. A couple of weeks after returning to Glennallen, I rode the Concours in to Anchorage to get an estimate done so I could turn it in to the insurance company. The temperature felt warm when I left home, around 60°F, so I only wore a long-sleeved cotton tee shirt under my Roadcrafter. Going through the Eureka area in Tahneta Pass, I noted the temperature had dropped to 50°F and it felt pleasantly cool. I knew I was back home. As I've grown older, and hopefully a bit wiser, the realization has come to me that the mighty deeds we do are really of no consequence. But what we can inspire others to do by our own actions is. If my ride, and this recounting of it, can inspire other riders to say "If that old duffer can do it, it'll be a piece of cake for me", then I will have accomplished something worthwhile. The United States, along with our neighbor to the north (for most of you), Canada, offer some of the very best riding to be found anywhere in the world, along with great people to meet along the way. Keep your priorities in their proper order, and look after your families first and foremost. But once those responsibilities have been taken care of, get out there and see the world. You won't regret it. by Jack Gustafson

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