Five Corners On A Connie

Five Corners On A Connie
or This Can't Be Happening!
by Jack Gustafson

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.

page 1

page 2

page 3

page 4

complete

home