Days Thirteen and Fourteen - Weekend With My Sisters

Start - Big Lake, WA

Stop - Big Lake, WA

Today's miles - 135

Total - 8,359

I spent the weekend with my sisters at my sister Sue and brother-in-law Bill's amazing slice of heaven just above Mount Vernon, WA.  The last time I was here was in 2008 when Kelley and I came here on our honeymoon to spend time getting to know our family.  I love this place.  Bill bought it many years ago and they have been slowly developing it.  I love every square inch, but especially the many little details of how they have built something out of nothing but a great location.

I got here earlier than I planned, on Friday rather than Saturday, so this has turned out to be a much better visit than I even hoped for.  After late night conversation, I went to bed in the loft of the log cabin half of Sue and Bill's house.  It was an apt location as I slept like the logs that surrounded me.

On Saturday morning we were a little slow getting going but eventually got around to leaving for Blaine and the next corner photo op.  I gave my sister a ride on the bike over to the home of John and Korynn, long time friends of ours.  John decided to make the run to Blaine with me.

Back in 2006 my Dad was very sick, in the hospital, and it became clear that he might not make it.  The girls called me on a Friday and said that it didn't look good.  Since I had spent a week with him the month before I just asked them to keep me informed.  I went to bed, couldn't sleep, so at 2:00 AM I packed up my truck in Houston and headed to Bremerton, WA.  I was in his room with my family on Sunday night.  He passed away on Monday with his wife and five kids at his side.  We started planning a Saturday funeral.  

Thursday of that week happened to be my birthday.  So John and Korynn invited me to spend the night with them on Wednesday and then I borrowed Korynn's bike and John and I spent Thursday riding around this beautiful country.  It was just what I needed.

Three years later John and Korynn decided to meet me in Sturgis and spend the week with me.  It just so happened that my Mom ended up getting very sick the week before we got to Sturgis.  I only got to spend a day with John and Korynn before I was called back to Mom's.  She died the day I got back to Houston.

All of that came to mind when I brought Sue to Korynn's and then headed out to meet John for the ride to Blaine.  Friends and family, shared life experiences, being there with each other in the midst of the worst times of life, "knowing" so much about each other, having that strange experience of not seeing each other for years and then time disappearing as soon as we're together as if no time passed at all  - isn't this about the best that life has to offer?

The ride to Blaine was fine.  I-5, one of the most highly traveled highways in the country, was moving well.  The temporary bridge over the Skagit River in Mount Vernon was a little creepy but we made it over without troubles.  At some point people around here will go back to taking bridges for granted but for now, the bridge collapse is pretty fresh on their minds.  It was on mine.

 We got back to Clinger Mountain and my bike didn't move again.

Sunday morning began with church at the Free Methodist Church in Day Creek, a little community east of Mount Vernon.  My niece, Laurel Lohman, and her husband, Travis, have been attending that church for years.  Recently Travis was commissioned as the lay pastor of the congregation so I was really looking forward to being part of worship.  It was fun.  A very different kind of experience than what people might have at Faith but clearly it was a community, Travis did very well, and the hearts of those people are in the right place.  It was a very good Sunday morning.

Then it was time to party!  With sisters and families and some friends, 31 people gathered on one of the most beautiful days I've seen in Washington.  Absolutely cloudless sky.  Mount Baker in all her glory.  And just about everyone was able to make it.  We had a great feast and spent the afternoon huddled in the shade, sharing stories and reconnecting.

Bill and Sue delight in calling themselves "rednecks", and that they are indeed.  You should have seen the kids entertaining themselves all day long hunting snakes and splashing in Bill's redneck pool, complete with water pumped up from the creek that runs 900 feet below their property.  I loved it.  It felt like my childhood, a time when the world was waiting for you to create your own fun, and we only had three channels on the TV (that all closed down for the night at midnight.)

Then came time for pictures.  I wanted two - one with my sisters and one with my brothers-in-law, all great guys.

Today made this whole trip worth it.  Eventually it came time for everyone to pack up and head for home.  I'll be doing the same in the morning.  It is on to points south and one step closer to Texas.

Day Twelve - LIfe is Better With A Full Tank of Gas

Start - Kalispell, MT

Stop - Big Lake, WA

Today's miles - 612

Total - 8,224

After a great night of conversation, sleep, and then breakfast, it was time to hit the road.  The plan for today was to ride, all day, in the mountains.  I wanted to stay on US 2 to Washington and then take State Hiway 20 all the way across Washington to my sister Sue's house.  As soon as I got on the road I checked the mileage and figured that I had enough gas to make the 90 miles to Libby.

What a ride that was - and what a ride the whole day turned out to be.  The road to Libby takes you through the Kootenai River Valley and its various passes and surprises.  "Kootenai" is a Native American word that means "OMG!  This place is beautiful!  I'm going to stay here FOREVER!" 

Now I might not be technically correct here but this is how I use the following words:  "Twisties" are tight corners that require downshifting, finding the right line, and accelerating.  "Sweepers" are relatively gentle curves that do not require slowing down or downshifting (they are actually even better if you accelerate through them.)  Those words matter because they, in addition to awesome views, are why it is fun to ride through mountains.  The road to Libby was sweeper heaven.

At one point I came up to three bikes in front of me.  I decided to hang with them for awhile.  They were puttering along, maybe five miles below the speed limit.  I followed.  I'm a fine follower.  I maintained the right gap, stayed in my lane, functioned like a sweep.  It isn't always OK to join a group like that but, since you can't read their minds while all of ours are being blown by the road, I took the risk.

It didn't take long before I realized again that, while I can be a fine follower, God has shaped me to lead.  That led to all sorts of other thoughts about working with people, second guessing things that have happened in the past, etc.  But then the speed limit jumped up to 70 mph and I couldn't take following anymore.  I got on it and waved to my newfound and suddenly long lost friends as I flew on down the road.

When I was about 30 miles from Libby I had a sinking feeling.  Once again, I wondered if my gas calculations had gone awry.  "Sure I can get there" became "I'm not so sure anymore I can get there."  Just as I realized that I probably needed to stop for gas we got to a stretch of road, a long stretch, that had neither civilization nor gas stations.  What it had instead was uphill climbs and a lot more wind.  It didn't look good.  Then it got worse.  The dreaded road construction delay.  I turned off my bike to save the fumes that were left.  I considered telling the guy pulling the camper behind me to stay with me in case I ran out of gas.  I considered it and realized what a total dweeb that would leave me looking like and didn't say a word.  I decided again to take my medicine.  I guess the lesson wasn't adequately learned.

Three miles short of Libby I got to a station.  I put 5.7 gals. in so, in retrospect, I WOULD have made it.  I hope I don't need to learn that lesson again.  Like I said earlier - I've never run out of gas on a bike, or in a car for the matter, in my life and I don't want to start now.

US 2 got me to Newport, WA, and I picked up State 20.  This would be a brand new road for me.  I was excited to get back to Washington.  Washington is like Montana if you left it in the dryer long enough to shrink it a bit.  It has everything and it isn't all that far from here to there.  But what Washington DOES have that Montana doesn't is a lot more traffic.  That's why Montana wins for me as the best state to ride in.  I love Montana.  If Montana was in Texas I'd move there (as long as Kelley, Emma, and I could bring Faith Lutheran Church with us.)

I had no idea what to expect from State 20.  I chose it for a couple of reasons.  First, it doesn't make much sense to cross the state on 20.  I-90 is the fastest, US 2 is next.  20 meanders, goes too far north, and wastes too much time.  Perfect for me because that means it wouldn't be very busy.  And second, State 20 is the pass through the North Cascades that I wanted to take.  I love that pass.   

The first time that I rode a bike across the North Cascades pass was in college.  My friend, Randy, and I decided to take a couple of days off of work.  He showed up at my house on his Yamaha 650 Midnight Special.  It was a much cooler looking bike than my Honda CB 750.  He had a duffle bag and a sheet of plastic tied to his sissy bar.  I had a duffle bag too, and a cooler with food and drinks.  Our letterman jackets were the closest thing we had to biker leathers.  We were good to go.  We headed up I-5 to Burlington and took off on State 20.  

Within a couple of hours we were having a snowball fight on Washington Pass.  Another hour and we were running the twisties down into Okanogan.  We rode on down to see the Grand Coulee Dam, through Electric City, and stopped before 5:00 PM at a camping place by a lake.  We took a swim, ate, drank, and then wrapped up under the plastic sheet for the night.  The next day we rode back over the pass on US 2 in the rain and flew home.  I remember I had a basketball game that night and I didn't want to be late.  We rode way too fast for the conditions but we were young and dumb.  For a while we switched bikes but I wasn't dumb enough to let that little experiment last too long.  As good as it looked, the Yamaha was a piece of junk.

So I headed north on State 20, looking forward to where it would take me.

 

The first mind picture I took was a sign that said "U.S.A.F. Survival School".  I thought that was pretty cool and added to the boondocks appeal of State 20.  I have no idea how many mountain passes I rode over but State 20 is twisty city.  I wasn't terribly surprised by the deer that darted across the road in front of me (he missed me by a mile) but I WAS amazed to ride into Collville and see a deer eating in someone's front yard, in the middle of town, along the main drag.  I had to turn around to get a picture of that one.  (Look closely, he's in front of the trees.)

After Kettle Falls I rode through some more passes in the Okanogan National Forest.  "Okanogan" is a Native American word that means, "Honey, don't forget to grab your sweater, it gets chilly up there."  It was great.  I remembered again that I love these signs:

I got to Tonasket and needed gas.  I checked my phone and Kelley had texted me, wondering if I had gotten off track.  I was too far north.  So I called to explain my rationale.  Taking State 20 was a great choice.  Along with the fun roads it also gave me the feeling that all bikers crave, the sense that they are the only ones on the road.  Nothing is better than riding in a world without cars and trucks.  That road was as close as I've been to that since Maine.

State 20 joins US 97 and heads south at Tonasket.  Out of the mountains we were suddenly in the desert and I was hot.  I turned east at Okanogan and let US 97 continue on its way to Wenatchee.  I like the sound of "Wenatchee" and that reminded me of a song that old school Washingtonians would remember:  "When Godzilla Ate Tukwila".

He ate Wenatchee and his throat got scratchy

So he sucked up Lake Chelan,

Piddled on Spokane,

And fertilized half of Yakima.

Great song.

And on I rode through the North Cascades.  Three passes.  Riding by more snow.  All good.  And even better in that I had been looking forward to it all day.

The pass spills out into the Skagit River Valley and the towns of Sedro-Wooley and Burlington.  They are just north of Mount Vernon and Conway - where I lived in high school with my Dad during the summers.  I did that for six years.  Immediately I noticed, as I remembered various things that I had done just down that road and just down that road...that I felt at home.  How weird is that?

My home state and my home town and I don't feel at home until I am actually inside the city limits.  But the Skagit Valley still feels like home.  My theory is that, since I was always only a visitor there, that "home" feeling here is tied to visiting again.  I guess my expectations aren't as high about visiting as they are about how "home" is supposed to feel.

I got to Sue and Bill's place they call "Clinger Mountain".  Fortunately they were home and my visit got a head start.

Truth is, we have no home on this earth that isn't temporary.  We're all visiting.  Maybe we need to rethink our expectations.  And now my Sunday With My Sisters gets to be my Weekend With My Sisters, which is even better.  Tomorrow we'll swing up to Blaine for Corner #4.

If in doubt, fill your tank.  Life goes better on a full tank.

Day Eleven - Montana

Start - Williston, ND

Stop - Kalispell, MT

Today's miles - 611

Total - 7,612

After negotiating my way down the gravel driveway, to the gravel road, to US 2, it was time to head to Montana.  As excited as I was to see my aunts, uncles, and cousins and to ride across North Dakota, I have been looking forward to Montana.  But first I had to get out of Williston.

The oil boom is exploding that city.  Amazingly, they seem to be figuring it out.  There doesn't seem to be much trouble finding oil, or finding people who want to make bonus bucks working in the oil patch, the problem is everything else.  Homes, streets, electrical power - none of that falls from the sky, or even lies underground as decaying biomatter.  People have to decide to build infrastructure, they need to plan it, pay for it, and build it.  And all of that takes time.

Much of North Dakota feels like a very laid back place.  A whole lot of waiting going on.  Waiting for crops to grow and animals to do their thing.  But Williston looks and feels like an ant hill, everyone scurrying and hurrying, all chasing dreams that have more to do with money than anything else.  Not that there is anything wrong with that - but haste makes waste and Williston is haste-ing up a storm.

Ten miles west of Williston I sat in a traffic line waiting for a road construction crew with my bike turned off, checking my email on my phone.  But once traffic started moving again, it was just ten more miles to reach Montana.

Hands down, I would spend a week riding bikes around Montana before any other state in the union.  In the summer.  I love Montana.

I also prefer crossing Montana from east to west.  You begin with the same expansive grassland and farmland that starts in North Dakota but somehow it just seems to stretch on further in Montana.  There is a reason they call it Big Sky Country and you will think that again and again as you pass through.  Starting in the east leaves the mountains in the west calling your name all day long.

I think of crossing Montana from east to west like going to your Grandma's for Thanksgiving.  You arrive at 6:00 AM but know you can't eat turkey until 4:00 PM.  You love being there all day but the anticipation is the best.

Between 9th grade and my second year in college, I spent most or all of the summers north of Seattle with my Dad and his family.  Each summer began and ended with a road trip between Conway, WA, and Wahpeton, ND.  I've driven or ridden lots of different combinations.  I-94/I-90 is the fastest and the simplest.  Plus you get to spend a few minutes by Coeur d'Alene.   The mountain passes are nice, in both states.  US 2 isn't nearly as fast or as easy.  It is old fashioned two lane highway driving, complete with timing your passing, slowing down for every little town that gets in your way, and actually seeing the way people live beyond the Gas Malls on the interstate.  Personally, because of that, I think that the mountain passes are better on US 2.  They come close enough together that you can make it a combo run.  Which I've done.

On this trip I decided to take US 2 the whole way.  It was an easy choice.  I've already ridden too much interstate for my taste.  I started off in Williston.  I have friends from my old church who have invited me to their home in Kalispell - thank you Dwight and Peggy!  And I have always wanted to ride the Going To The Sun road in Glacier National Park.  Got a plan, now work the plan.

US 2 was a fine choice.  

The first time I rode a motorcycle out to Seattle was the first week of May after my sophomore year in college, 1981.  I rode a 1973 Honda CB 750 Four.  (You gotta add the "four" there as it was so prominently displayed on the tank badge.)  I had nothing.  Very little money.  None of the right clothes or boots.  Nothing.  I had problems with a chain that wouldn't stay tight and broken spokes that I had to replace on the way.  It was bitterly cold and raining when I left Tom and Judy's.  I started out on US 2 but headed toward the interstate through Sidney.

I found out there was a snowstorm on the pass so I cut south through Hardin to Casper, then over the pass to Salt Lake City.  I went up to Oregon and followed the river to Portland before heading north on I-5.  The rain never quit falling from the time I left Portland.  I had no money so I had to ride through the night, sleeping in the Iron Butt Motel on rest area picnic tables, freezing half to death.  I finally got to my Dad's at 8:00 AM.  IT WAS AN AWESOME AND AMAZING TRIP!

So I thought about that as I rode down US 2 in the sunshine.  I haven't had any significant rain on this whole trip.  I have all the equipment I could want and a bike that feels like my big chair in front of the TV.  The miles whipped by.

I think about Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance every once in awhile when I'm moving.  Loved the book.  He and his son rode through North Dakota in that book, they even rode through Wahpeton.  Read it.  I'm right on that.  I was doing the Zen thing today...I would look up and another 60 miles were gone.  The wind was fierce and my gas mileage continued to be atrocious.  AND no one had gas higher than 89 octane.  What's with that?  Eventually I got a tank of 91 in Cut Bank.  (Forgot to bring those little bottles of octane booster I left in the garage.)

You pass through some Native American reservations on US 2.  I stopped at Fort Peck and Fort Belknap.  It is good for the soul to notice reservations.  Not comfortable but good.  Far better than just ignoring their existence.  Life is horrible on most of them.  Alcoholism, drug addiction, rape, suicide, diabetes.  Much of this is rooted in trying to change the pain of poverty, unemployment, despair, and hopelessness.  So I stop, get my coffee and stand in line.  I greet people.  And I ride on, praying for everyone who is working to bring a measure of decency, self respect, sobriety, and hope into the lives of the people who remain at the soul of our nation.  Especially those from the reservation who go back to make a difference.

And I ride on.  I was racing to get to Glacier National Park while there was enough sun to ride to it.

I first heard about the Going to the Sun Road when I was a kid.  My Grandma and Grandpa Fay took their camper on a vacation that included Glacier.  Grandpa Fay loved to laugh and little was funnier to him than getting Grandma's goat.  She was terrified on that road and Grandpa Fay laughed the whole time.  He laughed when she was telling the story.  I knew someday I would have to see for myself.

But I was always too busy.  I always just roared down US 2, right past the park, never taking time to stop.  Today I finally made it.

For those of you who have traveled that road, you understand when I say that it is hard to describe.  It is awe inspiring.  Not only the majesty of the sights - glaciers creeping down rocky faces, snow melt waterfalls misting the road, snow-capped peaks, beautiful mountain lakes - but also the human ingenuity that thought to make such sights available to us.  

I wanted to enter the road from the east because I was heading to Dwight and Peggy's house and it was on the way.  It was one of those things that, if I had time, I would ride it both ways just to see the differences.  Even the ride from Browning to St. Mary was fun - twisty roads, elevation changes, and glimpses of the grandeur ahead.

If you haven't ridden Going to the Sun, add it to your bucket list.  Make a plan.  Work the plan.

And thank you, Dwight and Peggy, for your wonderful hospitality.

Day Ten - Adventures in North Dakota

Start - Wahpeton, ND

Stop - Williston, ND

Today's miles - 420

Total - 7,001

There are three primary "sister cities" on the North Dakota/South Dakota border.  In the north, Grand Forks, ND, sits across the Red River from East Grand Forks, MN.  In the middle, Fargo, ND, sits across from Moorhead, MN.  And 50 miles south of Fargo/Moorhead, Wahpeton, ND, sits across from Breckenridge, MN.  This was the center of the universe of my childhood and I was so excited for this day of riding.

I realize that I am biased so everything that I am about to say about my reflections on, and experience of, a day of riding through my home state is strictly my opinion and subject to change on a moment's notice so please, my ND friends and family, don't be overly offended by the thoughts that I had as I traversed the homeland.

Anyone crossing the border from Minnesota into North Dakota for the first time would immediately notice that, some time in the night, someone came and stole all the hills.  Eastern North Dakota is flatter than the Coke you left on the counter last Thursday.  And trees?  The only trees that you will see were either put there by God right next to a water source or they were planted by some prudent farmer around his home place or between his fields, hoping against hope that the wind wouldn't blow everything away.

There are two interstate highways that cut across the state.  I-29 runs north/south near the eastern border.  It goes right by Grand Forks and Fargo but it lies 13 miles to the west of Wahpeton.  There is a reason for that.  The Wahpeton forefathers, rather than lobbying to make sure that the modern world didn't pass them by, instead fought tooth and nail against the encroachment of the "freeway". That pretty much sums up the vision of my home town.  First they raise under-achievement to an art form, then they apply moral value to it, resulting in a situation that insures that people will be their most important export to other places in the country.

I-94 is the other interstate, running from Fargo in the east through the center of the state, passing through Bismarck (the state capital) and on into Montana.  If you have ever crossed North Dakota, it probably happened on I-94.  Farther to the north, coming through at Grand Forks, is US 2.  US 2 was my target for the day.

Another thing you need to know about North Dakota is that it is almost two states in one.  Everything on and north of I-94 forms the heart of the state.  Everything south of I-94 exists but feels largely irrelevant to the whole.  And everything changes as you move from east to west - I think you feel that immediately when you move from Bismarck to Mandan on I-94 or when you leave Minot on US 2.  The landscape changes.  The mindset changes.  There has long been a simmering discontent and mistrust between the east and the west.  The east has long been seen as the bastion of "rich Republicans" with the incredible growing powers of the loam soil of the Red River Valley, the economy of Fargo, long the biggest city in the state (this is relative, folks, Fargo had about 56,000 residents when I was a kid, today the Fargo metro area might have 120,000), and the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks.

The west was about ranchers and farmers who needed to plant vast acres of crops to make a go of it. It was about the Badlands and Medora and Teddy Roosevelt spending his summer vacation.  And, from time to time, it was about oil.  Never was it more about oil, especially in the northwest around Williston, than it is today.  The west used to be fiercely independent and Democratic.  I suppose that worm is turning too.

Such were the thoughts that were running through me as I headed west from Wahpeton to meet I-29 out by Mooreton.  The farm I worked at as a kid is six miles out of town, a mile to the north on "old 81", the road that used to be the primary way of driving to Fargo.  No one, I'm told, goes that way anymore.  Hiway 75, that runs on the Minnesota side, was closed due to flash flooding from the storm the night before.  So I went west to catch the interstate.

I remember when they built it.  My mom's boyfriend lived in Mooreton so we were out there a lot.  I remember how exciting it was when they dug a huge hole in the ground that provided the dirt to construct what would become an "overpass."  The hole would become Lake Mooreton.  You can't imagine how exciting this was and how awesome to see such a majestic highway just 13 miles west of town.  As silly as all of that seems, I hope I never lose that sense of wonder at the things that people figure out a way to do, or my appreciation for hardworking salt of the earth people for whom such matters matter.

In the 34 years since I left home for college, I have never experienced taking the road out of Wahpeton, then heading north to Fargo on I-29, without having to pass through some kind of road construction.  It must be the fierceness of the seasons that wreaks havoc on the roads.  I wasn't disappointed this time either as they are now re-doing the Lake Mooreton overpass.  Again.

The speed limit on the interstates is now 75 mph.  That is awesome.  When I first got my license the federal government had mandated a nationwide reduction to 55 mph.  That was a killer.  Imagine pulling a band-aid off an owee very very slowly and you get a sense of how painful it was to drive 55 mph when your goal was to get from here to there.  Imagine as well that the state patrol didn't have much going on in a state with only 540,000 residents so they wrote tickets just to break up the monotony of the day.

Then there is the wind.  Show me a place with no hills and few trees, in the middle of a vast continent, subject to wide temperature extremes, and I'll show you a place where the wind blows.  If it isn't blowing it is howling.  Today it was in rare form.  Heading north, it came to me from the west.  And once I got to Grand Forks and headed west on US 2, I was riding straight into its teeth.  It was great.  Just what I expected.  And I was riding hard as I had a 10:30 AM appointment to visit with my Uncle Gordon and Aunt Darlene, and a couple of my cousins and their families, at the farm just outside of Lakota, 60 miles west of Grand Forks.

As I passed the familiar landmarks on the way to Lakota the thought suddenly crossed my mind of how embarrassing it would be for me, now a city boy, to forget how to get to the farm.  And I realized at the same time that I wasn't sure I would be able to remember how to get to the farm.  That might make me late and that wouldn't be a good thing.  Promptness is a high ND virtue.  As is feeling guilty.  If you don't feel guilty about something in ND, don't worry, it won't take us long to help you with that.

So I decided to go with my gut and trust my muscle memory.  I got to the Mapes turn (curves in the highway being rare enough that they can be named) which is where I needed to turn but I almost missed it because the grain elevator that used to be there isn't there anymore.  But it still felt right.  I could see Lakota off in the distance and this WAS the Mapes turn, so I left the comfort and security of US 2 to travel down a country gravel road the day after a hard rain and storm bad enough that it tore the roof off of one of my uncle's farm buildings.  Immediately I realized, "This might not be good."

When I was a kid I flew down gravel roads on my Yamaha Enduro with reckless abandon.  A 1000 lb. Harley Davidson Ultra Classic with highway tires, fully loaded with a fat Lutheran pastor at the helm was not made for such adventure.  But the road seemed dry and packed and it seemed to be going OK as I hunted and pecked for the farm.  I got to the road that felt right and turned left.  I got to the next intersection where I assumed the farm was but it didn't seem right.  There was a shop as big as an aircraft hanger on one road, and when I turned right there was a big beautiful house with a three car garage that I had never seen before.  I was looking for Grandma's house which I came to learn had been replaced years ago.  My muscles found the right place but my Harley flew right past.

Now, I got to the Mapes turn at 10:34 AM.  So I was running a little late and already feeling a little guilty.  I also realized that, while I felt completely comfortable in my own skin, dressed like a biker with a fully wooly head of hair and fresh beard, everywhere else I had been, it all felt strangely inappropriate the second I had crossed the North Dakota border.  Now I felt out of place.  And I, without realizing it, had passed the home place.  Later I would come to learn that Gordon had already received a phone call from a hired hand, "I think your nephew just rode past on his Harley."  And my cousin Nancy, seeing me fly by, said to the others, "I think that was Kerry."  But they all just let me go because they sensed that God needed to punish me for my big city arrogance.

About a mile farther down the road the road suddenly made a 90 degree correction to the north.  And suddenly I saw this (later I asked Gordon to drive me back here so I could record the scene):

Do I need to tell you that hitting that particular patch of muck at 50 mph almost brought a premature end to the odyssey of my ride?  I have never fishtailed a Harley in my life as it did in those next few death defying moments.  I have no idea whatsoever how I kept that bike on two wheels but the pain I felt for the rest of the day in my left wrist, left elbow, and right shoulder reminded me of the force it took to counter balance disaster.  Obviously, having escaped with my bike, my life, and my pride intact, I slowed to a crawl until that useless road met the highway.  I was north of Lakota.  I knew I missed the farm.  But I didn't stop to call until I got back on a firm foundation.

I called Gordon for directions and headed up the highway to the correct turn to get to the farm from that direction.  Once I got on the right road I met another relative who was on his way home.  We stopped in the middle of the road to share "Hi's", then he left with the ominous warning, "Be careful now, the road is pretty bad up there."

It was.  When I got to the worst of it, slowly riding in 1st gear with my feet down for balance, I got that sickening feeling one gets when their million dollar baby sinks into the soft gravel of a battered country road - Sorry Cowboy but this is as far as I go - and over went my Harley.  It just fell out from under me.  The bike laid down and I stayed standing.  "I knew this wasn't a good idea" and "I need to get this back up and going before Gordon sees me" - put those ideas and a fresh surge of adrenalin together and somehow I righted the bike and spun my way through the quick sand to something better approaching a road.  I got to the intersection ahead, Gordon now waiting for me in his pickup, only to discover that the huge new shop was his, the new house belonged to my cousin, Scott, and his family, and I had driven right by.

And so it was that I got to spend time with what is left of my family on the eastern end of ND.  High tech farmers, salt of the earth people, Lutherans who know to their inner core that they have been blessed to be a blessing to others.

We caught up.  We told stories.  We laughed.  And then it was time to go.

Before leaving Lakota I needed to capture a couple of shots of the town hotspots.  Off in the distance is the SunLac motel and cafe - where the older folks gather for coffee and where I have enjoyed several post worship Sunday buffet dinners in the back room when we had enough people there to deserve it - and the Dairy Queen that has long served as Grand Central Station for the younger crowd:

And, of course, I needed to take a picture of Lakota Lutheran Church.  That church has been close to the heart of my Nelson family for a long time.  The last time I was there was for my Grandma's funeral. Back in the day, when I was in seminary, Pastor Ness let me preach at the Easter Sonrise service two years in a row.  (I will also here note both how creative the name of the church is and how the local speed limit says a ton about the speed at which Lutheran churches in small North Dakota towns seem to move):

From Lakota, heading west on US 2, the next "must stop" came at Rugby, ND, the geographical center of North America.  Now you understand why everything in our country revolves around North Dakota:

I got to Minot, a town my friend Blair loves as much as I love Wahpeton, and once again felt it as the world around me changed and I headed into western North Dakota, toward the farm where my Aunt Judy and Uncle Tom have lived since 1969.

Brief aside:  While I was parked in front of Lakota Lutheran Church (see above), I called my Aunt Judy to make DARN SURE that the gravel road to their place was FIRMLY PACKED and FREE OF MUD HOLES.  While we were on the phone, I could hear another phone ringing in the background.  "You did what?" I heard Judy say.  "Oh," I also heard her say, "so that's why the power went out here in the house."  Then Judy tells me, "Kerry, I have to let you go.  Tom just hit a power pole with his disc.  The power lines have dropped on his tractor and he needs help."  With that our conversation was over and I left for the five hours it would take for me to get there, wondering the whole time if there would be an Uncle waiting for me when I arrived.  Again, I can't make this stuff up!  THIS is what you run into on long motorcycle trips.  Look closely and you'll see the broken power pole that was propped up by the power company guy who then freed my Uncle from his tractor.

The closer I got to the farm, the more evidence I saw that the Bakken oil field is dramatically changing both the landscape and lives of people out here in this particular corner of God's creation.  Tom and Judy are involved in all of this as well.  Here is one of the oil pumps on their land.  Liquid gold.  Texas tea.  (I wonder if North Dakota Nectar might make that list.)

Two more of my cousins and their families came out to say hi.  One drove 50 miles from Montana to be here.  On and on we talked into the night until finally it was time to go to bed.

This place is very special to me.  Many times my Mom would pack the four of us kids in the car and we would drive out to Tom and Judy's.  They are wonderful people.  And how cool it is that my remaining relatives embody the life and times of the two sides of this great state of North Dakota.  A state that does, in fact, exist.

And check out the tractor that took out the pole!

Day Nine - Where You're From

Start - Duluth, MN

Stop - Wahpeton, ND

Today's miles - 498

Total - 6,581

I began this morning as the first bike parked outside of the Harley Davidson Sports Center in Duluth, MN.  They opened at 9:00 AM.  I was there about 8:15 AM, hoping against hope that the myth was right and they would bend over backwards to accommodate a guy on a long trip needing his oil changed.  They actually bowed slightly which was better than ignoring me completely and I was out and on the road at 11:00 AM.

Because of the late start, I was eager to get to International Falls.  I have never been there but have heard of it all my life as the usual suspect in the coldest place in America contests every winter.  US 53 takes you there, and on the way, you pass through the heart of the Minnesota Iron Range.  This is a subculture if I've ever heard of one.  Fierce, rugged, independent, hard living, hard working, tough.  And that's just the women.  So I was excited to pass through.

It was hard to pass up a picture at the United States Hockey Hall of Fame in Evelyth..but I did.  But I couldn't pass up the giant blue gill in Orr.

I wasn't expecting to have a spiritual experience this morning but I did.  I'll tell you about it but first I have to set it up.  This is for the sake of those of you who are interested, but especially as a word to the wise among those reading this who are also planning a long motorcycle ride.  Here's goes:

Gas mileage on a motorcycle is a very fickle kind of thing.  The biggest variables are speed, wind, and "Did you actually fill it to the very top the last time you filled or did you give up after the 50th little pump trickle so it doesn't overflow on your pretty paint job?"  

This isn't rocket science (although it is related) but basically, if you ride faster you use more gas.  Double duh!  AND, if you ride with the wind behind you, you will get better gas mileage.  And finally, if you don't fill it to the very top...drum roll here... you don't actually have as much gas in the tank to begin with.

Now all of this is very important.  And I'll add one more thing.  Even though I have a high tech HD gas gauge with dual trip meters and a deal that estimates how many miles you have left before empty, I still  do the old school thing and reset my first trip meter to zero with every gas fill.  (I set the other trip meter to keep track of how many miles it has been since my last oil change.  I keep track of trip mileage on paper.  In a notebook.  With a pen that has a string taped to it that I run through one of the 3 rings of the notebook.  Very high tech.)

As a rule, especially on a long trip, I fill up very patiently and make sure it is to the absolute top.  I usually have to rock it a bit so that I can put my gas cap on without gas overflowing on to my pretty paint job.  On this trip, I have started using the "miles remaining" thing more often.  Usually from a half tank left on down.  So on my last fill yesterday, I rode 237 miles and I put in 5.6 gals.  Amazing mileage.

I am also a firm believer in slow and steady wins the race.  I don't speed.  And I don't stop.  So if the speed limit is 55, I'll be going 62.  (Quit it, that is HARDLY speeding.)  I think you get farther faster if you ride slower and steadier.  And you don't have to worry so much about troopers.

Trust me, you need to know all of that so you understand my spiritual experience.

So I get on my bike in Duluth to head, excitedly, to International Falls.  I don't remember the details exactly but let's say for kicks that my gauge said that I had enough gas to travel 170 miles and that International Falls was going to be 163 miles.  I knew there would be some towns between here and there so I could get gas if I wanted.  Off I went.  It was beautiful.  What is not to like about riding through the paradise of northern Minnesota?  It was four lane most of the way and then two lane and road construction for the last 70 miles.

At first, as the miles were rolling away under me, the estimated number wasn't changing as fast.  The gap was actually growing.  And I began to think that I might be able to get all the way to International Falls on the gas that was in my tank - and therefore I could get the official gas stamp proving I was there without an extra stop in the middle.

I remember the last real gas station I passed.  And I remember the moment I realized that I hadn't accounted for the headwind I was pushing.  Suddenly the ratios shifted.  And eventually I realized that there was a very real possibility that, for the first time in my entire life, I was going to run out of gas in the middle of nowhere and it was going to be my own stupid fault.

So I told God, "OK, you see what is happening here.  I was getting cocky and now I'm very possibly going to end up looking stupid, having to walk for gas in this heat, while leaving my bike behind.  But I'll do it.  I'm OK with this.  I'm going to learn a lesson either way.  If I get there, I'll know to never let it happen again.  And if I don't, I'm going to learn to REALLY never let it happen again.  Either way, I'm OK with it."

And that is the God's honest truth about where I am with God on things in my life today.  I'm OK with whatever happens because I know that God loves me, that things will work out, and that every situation can teach me something because the Holy Spirit is always working on me.

But that is only part of my spiritual experience.

I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that the Northwoods Bible Church was listed to do road side clean up on a little section of road.  I think that is nice.  We did the same at my old church.  We called it Roadside Aerobics.  (Yet another opportunity that adults eagerly dump on to the backs of youth.)  Not long after seeing the sign, I looked up and I saw, at the next curve in the road, a brown building with a white cross.  I knew that had to be the church.  (This is actually a picture I just now stole from their website, I was far too terrified that I was going to run out of gas today to take the picture live.)

I got excited because I assumed a church like I could see off in the distance clearly HAD to be located in a community with a gas station.

Not.

So I just rolled on by and that is when God talked to me.  Here's what God said:  "Kerry, I use people like you and churches like that to meet the deepest needs that people aren't even aware that they have.  For their trivial, earthly needs, like gas in their tanks, I use gas stations."

That is all I needed to hear and I was completely at peace with whatever would happen.  And I was grateful again for the privilege of serving as a pastor to people.  I never saw that moment coming.

Nor did I expect to see a gas station just six miles from International Falls.  The wind hurt my mileage but I got 255 miles to the tank (and pumped 6 gals. into a tank that holds 6 gals.)  Lesson learned.  Really.  Lesson learned.  Then I headed to the post office for point three on the Six Corners Epic 25th tour.

For many years now I get occasional emails from a woman in Minnesota who is an absolute hoot.  When I planned this ride, I wrote to her and told her that I just had to meet her in person.  So when I left the post office, I put Sue's address into my GPS.  Unfortunately, it turns out that my GPS took me to the wrong Johnson lake road so I needed a phone call there in the middle.  But fortunately, the twisting north country roads were a joy to ride.  Who wouldn't love this?

 

And then I got to have a beer and a conversation with Sue and her husband Bob in their log cabin on a lake in Northern Minnesota.  That, my friends, is the high life.

My next planned stop was going to be, of all things, my mother's grave outside of Fergus Falls, MN.  She died in 2009 and none of us live close.  I tried to visit it when I was up there in February but, as you can see, that would have been a challenge.  I got as far as the entry road.

So this time I was bound and determined to get there.  While it was still light enough to see.  So I set my GPS for Fergus Falls and followed the roads it picked for me.  I was pleased when we went right by Cass Lake.  My children's grandparents (and their extended families) have camped there every summer for over 50 years.  We joined them a few times.  I was amazed to see such a large family (Grandpa Wadman came from a family of ten children) who could get along with each other, drink beer without getting drunk, camp together without drama, let the kids play cards with the adults, AND catch lots of walleyes.  Great memories and they are still going there in July.

The various roads that wind through the Minnesota lake country are all fun.  There are lakes everywhere.  Beautiful views in every direction.  Sue told me that there are 1007 lakes in her county alone!  And lots of little communities too that you pass through.  Including Akely, one of six towns that claim Paul Bunyan as a hometown boy.  (Texas has Davey Crockett...Minnesota has Paul Bunyan.  And Bud Grant.)

At some point I realized that the GPS was not taking me the same way that I would normally have traveled from Walker to Fergus Falls.  I would have gone by Perham and Otter Tail and Battle Lake and the ways I always used to go.  But the GPS took me through Park Rapids and Detroit Lakes and Pelican Rapids.  (I rode past the lake where my Uncle Ron was scattered.  He was a REAL character.  I come from a long line of characters.  I guess that makes me a long character as well.) 

And that was my second spiritual epiphany of the day.  I trusted my GPS and followed.

There are lots of ways that I let God take the lead in my life today that wasn't the case back in the day when I lived in this neck of the woods.  God still isn't through with me yet.  Which is why, although I didn't plan on coming to my hometown at all on this trip, when it crossed my mind a few days ago that I could, and should, that ultimately I did.  As a matter of fact, I'm typing this from a motel in my hometown right now.

This town doesn't change much.  Although it does change.  All things change.  But I change.  And every time I come through here - most of the time without telling anyone - I notice how I never really feel like I am "where I'm from" until I cross the Red River and enter the city limits of this place.  THIS is where I am from and I'm grateful to God that I'm from here...and that I get to ride away from here in the morning.

This is what you see when you look up in the sky to the north, thinking, "After I find Mom's grave I'm going to be riding up into that???"

Yuck!

So I hurried on to the cemetery where we buried Mom.  I know it doesn't mean anything to her.  I get that.  But she was buried and she didn't want to be forgotten.  She was a hard woman.  She could be mean, sarcastic, vulgar, moody, all on her good days.  But she also had a heart of gold, deep empathy, and a lot of people are better off for having known her.  And I joined her in being grateful for God's gift of recovery in her life, that she died sober.

The last time I saw my Mom was at of the nursing home we just had moved her into.  She had had a good week, getting a little better every day, and she wanted to come down and see my motorcycle.  I had worked a visit to her into that year's trip to Sturgis.  She was so proud of me, and of my bike, and of my willingness to come and see her.  Three years before that, after I finished preaching on Sunday morning in Rapid City, I called her up and invited her to dinner.  Mark and I rode 500 miles to pick Mom up and eat large at 10:30 at night in Perkins.  She rode there on my bike.  But there wouldn't be a ride on that last visit.  It was hard for her just to come down as she did.  That was on Friday.  She died on Tuesday.

I know we all have lots of mixed feelings about our parents.  I know I do.  My sisters have deep Mom-caused wounds that they have continued to struggle with and work through and all of that, but I also know that none of us would be here without her.  (Which, by the way, is always the ultimate Mom trump card which none of us can touch.)

So rest in peace, Carol.  We know you did your best and we love you.

From the cemetery I rode the 26 miles west to my hometown, Wahpeton, North Dakota.  Where the men are men and the women are strong.  Tomorrow I get to ride across this great state and see some more long lost loved ones.

PS.  I have to crack open my other jeans a little earlier than planned.  When I kneeled at Mom's grave to pray the Lord's Prayer the tear on my knee got worse.  I'm going to bury them here.  Ironic, isn't it? R.I.P. Jeans....

Day Eight - Truckers

Start - Mentor, OH

Stop - Duluth, MN

Today's miles - 873

Total - 6,081

Before I get into today's report, I want to make a recommendation:  The next time you have spent 24 hours on the road, having had three hours of sleep before leaving, and having taken two naps laying on the parking lot in turnpike service centers (yeah, the next time that you find that happening to you), I highly recommend the Best Western in Mentor, OH.  The place itself is a bit foo-foo for me (modeled after the home of hometown hero, James Garfield, the 20th President of these United States, who was quite unfortunately shot to death after four months in office...but I digress...)

Anyhow, the place is fancy and maybe a little bit spendy but the air conditioning / mattress / pillow / blanket combination was worth every penny.  I haven't had such a nice hotel bed since the synod assembly was at the New Orleans Sheraton.  And the shower!!!  It was the most memorable shower I've had since the time I rented a shower at the truck stop in Belle Fouche, SD, my first shower after nine days of riding and sleeping on the ground during the 2010 Hoka Hey.

I'm glad I trusted my instincts and stopped when I did.  It make for a great break and this morning I left feeling like myself.  I was itching to ride.

In terms of today's ride, there isn't a whole lot to report.  If you begin east of Cleveland and your goal is to get to Duluth, you basically go west on I-90 and turn right in Eau Claire.  That's about it in a nutshell.  Although today I did use my GPS instead of my route card.  I had little fear that I would be routed through Canada.  And I'm glad I did as I learned something - the best way to ride through Chicago is to ride around Chicago.  It was very pleasant.  I just followed the roads that the GPS told me to follow and every few minutes I handed $1.50 to some over-educated person in a bad mood working in the toll booths.  I am SO done with toll roads.  But the ride was perfect.  No rain.  No traffic jams.  Just lots of miles.

Today was a big mind picture day for me.  The first mind picture (pictures I thought about taking but didn't take time to take) was of my bike in front of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, OH.  I didn't stop but I thought about it.  Then I realized that I really didn't care.  Why is the R&R HOF in Cleveland anyway?  And yes I know that Cleveland had the Wolfman Jack radio DJ of the Midwest but the very fact that he was LIKE Wolfman Jack instead of the other way around tells me he was second fiddle.  Besides, what is Cleveland besides "like Chicago but less interesting?"  Those were my thoughts so I passed it by.

I also passed by the World RV Museum in Elkhart, IN.  And the factory where my little house was made.  Those were tough ones to skip.  Back in the 1960's, my dad - who by then had moved on to wife and family #2 - bought an old bookmobile that didn't run at an auction.  He hauled it home, rebuilt the engine, gutted the inside, built some bunks and a table, cut a hole in the back and installed a ramp so that they could haul my little sister's pony.  Seriously.  My dad was a mechanical genius.  Fast forward many years and he had been at a new job selling RV's for a living when he was invited to participate in a dealer's council (a way for RV manufacturer's to give sales guys a heads up on new models and to get feedback from them.)  My dad told the story of the bookmobile.  The next year that manufacturer came out with a line of what became known as toy haulers.  Dad died believing he had been something of an innovator in the world of toy hauling RV's.  I, by the way, was his final customer. He sold my little house to me from the rehab hospital he was at a month before he died.

(Quick aside to that:  I checked the internet tonight and, according to rv.net, various types of homemade toy haulers were made through the years, the first commercially crafted ones in 1974.  So Dad, rest in peace, and I still think the bookmobile was brilliant and I'm very proud to have been your last customer.)

The next mind picture I took was of my bike in front of the Notre Dame football field with Touchdown Jesus behind it.  I didn't go there either but I did ride by the exit.  I realized that I didn't really care about Notre Dame.  I liked Lou Holtz but that's about it.  And Notre Dame has been irrelevant in basketball since Kelly Tripucka channeled Freddie Mercury back when Digger Phelps was the coach.  "Digger", by the way, is an awesome name for a basketball coach.  Or any coach for that matter.

Back in the summer after 9th grade, my basketball team played a tournament in Aberdeen, SD.  Our coach was a great guy who worked for my town's recreation department named Don Beck.  We, of course, nicknamed him "Digger."  We won the tournament and that name stuck with Digger for the rest of the time he spent in Wahpeton.  You gotta love that.

And these, you see, are the sorts of thoughts you have while riding 873 miles down the road between Mentor, OH, and Duluth, MN.

My last mind picture was of my bike in front of Lambeau Field in Green Bay.  My GPS didn't take me there and I didn't fight it.  I had a long way to go and I don't much care for the Packers anyway.  But my friend Cory does and he might have appreciated the picture.  At least I thought about it.  And it IS the thought that counts, right?

I did have a couple of way cool things happen today.  I'll set this story up by saying that sometime in the past few months, I was talking to someone about this ride that I'm on, and they told me the story of their friend, Sandi, who decided to buy a Harley Davidson and ride around the country.  So she did. She put 10,000 miles on it in two months, rode out to Oregon and back, and then left in April to ride some more.  Anyway, a great story.

So today I was riding somewhere west of Cleveland (still not terribly interesting but their baseball field looks cool next to the freeway), when I come up behind two Harleys that seemed to be riding WAY too close together.  I'm a stickler for not riding side by side.  Only novices do that until someone teaches them that "yes, I know they did that in Easy Rider but that was for the sake of the camera and it isn't safe."  (Hell's Angels also do that but who am I to complain about that?)

So I come up behind these two bikes and I pass them.  I notice that the woman is leading and I think that is both unusual but also very chivalrous of her partner.  And off I go.  Later, I'm getting gas at yet another turnpike service center (they became service plazas in Indiana) and who should pull in but my two new friends.  We all gassed up, I went in to get some coffee, they parked and then walked back over to me.

"So where in Texas are you from?" says the woman.  "Houston." I reply.  "So are we." she says.  "Hi, I'm Sandi and this is Trey."  So I told her the story I had heard from a friend about a woman named Sandi who bought a bike and headed to Oregon.  "THAT'S ME! I'M THAT SANDI!"

I swear, you could make this stuff up but I'm not.  Meet Sandi from Houston:

I have no doubt in my mind that someday soon Sandi is going to meet Gonzo somewhere and they'll start telling stories.  Before long they will both share how they met a tall pastor from Houston on the road and they will both agree, "The dude could use to lose some poundage."

My last surprise was needing gas at the exit for the Wisconsin Dells.  The absolute best vacation I ever took with my kids was there.  THAT required a real picture.

But the title for today's entry was "Truckers" and I haven't even gotten around to that.  I just want to go public with my appreciation and respect for people who drive trucks for a living.  I'm serious.  I'm out on the road having fun and they are out there day after day making a living. If they aren't moving, they aren't making money.  Those turnpikes I hate? They are on them every day, in every kind of weather, dealing with all those drivers who flunked "lines" in kindergarten.  So I consider myself a friend of truckers.

When they put on a turn signal in front of me, I pull over and slow down traffic so they can move over.  When I see them coming up behind me with a full head of steam, I get out of their way. I wave at them.  I'm their best friend on the road.  So that is what I did much of today - I was nice to truckers and it was fun.

I got to Duluth so I can get my bike serviced first thing in the morning.  I have almost 6400 miles on my oil and that isn't nice to my bike.  Then I have a long day of riding tomorrow in beautiful Minnesota before heading into God's country.

By the way, if anyone wants to stretch a Four Corners Ride into a Six Corners Ride like mine, come the way I did up 53 North.  When you are still over 10 miles from Superior, WI, you come to the top of a hill looking out over a valley.  Way off in the distance you can see Lake Superior. That moment makes the ride worth every bit of the time.

P.S.  Those keeping score of such matters, I'm still wearing the same jeans and shirt I was wearing when I left Houston.  I'm saving my clean pair for Sunday with My Sisters.  You just gotta love road trips!

Day Six (and Seven) – Mind Pictures

Start - Madawaska, ME

Stop - Mentor, OH

Today's miles - 1,095

Total - 5,208

Sometimes on long trips, one day sort of blends into the next. That seems to be what is happening today.

I began Day Six in Madawaska, ME.  You can't say that it is in the middle of nowhere because it feels more like it is on the edge rather than the middle.  And Canada is right across the river. I don't know what is. I do know It is 100 miles from the end of I-95. It is a delightful little place, but other than "I grew up there", "I have relatives there," "I'm a boot-legger" - if not for the Four Corners - I have no idea why anyone would go there. Nor did I expect the surprises and good time I would find there.

When I first arrived at the motel, I noticed two other motorcycles in the parking lot. When I got up in the morning, one of them was gone. 

Then the welcome wagon arrived. Joe LaChance is the person behind the establishment of the four corners monument in Madawaska. He likes to be there to greet all the riders as they come through. I was really surprised to see him. I read his story on the Internet but never expected to actually meet the guy.

Then Joe told me that the other bike in the parking lot belonged to a guy who goes by the name "Gonzo". I knew the name immediately. I was reading his ride updates for almost 3 weeks before I left Houston. 

Gonzo was in Madawaska as his final stop on what is called a Four Corners True X ride. That involves going to each of the corners and then, after hitting that corner, riding going to the center of the United States, Lebanon, Kansas. Four corners with three separate trips to Lebanon. This was the first stage in four months on the road for Gonzo. He plans on riding every famous motorcycle road in the country. We just had to get our picture taken together.

I got gas and the required gas receipt and then headed to Dolly's restaurant for a home-cooked breakfast. Soon I was joined by Joe, his wife, and Gonzo. Great people. 

Before I left we exchanged business cards, telephone numbers and email addresses and now we're on the same team forever. I told them I have a trailer and a truck so they both know they have someone they can call in Texas if they ever break down or need help. . Gonzo said if it's the same for him in Southern California. I think that's pretty cool.  It was also cool that Gonzo picked up the check.  I owe you one.

Now here is the weird thing - I had ridden 889 miles the day before, through brutish traffic, foreign roads, and 280 of those miles were in the dark in temperatures that I came to find out dipped below 40.  I didn't get to the motel until 4:15 AM and I was out of bed at 8:00 AM.  And yet I couldn't wait to get back on the bike and go.  I have places to go and a short time to get there.

As it was, with the pictures and the lunch, I didn't leave town until about noon.  I decided to take a different road back to I-95.  First, I followed US 1 a little ways down the road to where it all started in Fort Kent. US 1 is the first highway in the United States highway system and it runs all the way south to Key West. I just had to take a picture.

By the way, US 2 also begins in Maine. These two highways began the tradition of north-south highways being odd-numbered and east-west highways even-numbered. I'll pick up US 2 in North Dakota and take it all the way to Washington state.

From Fort Kent I took Hwy 11 down through Maine until it connected back up with I-95.  It actually reminded me a lot of the Pacific Northwest - trees, hills, logging, a very picturesque kind of place.

Again, they should call this road "Moose Alley" for all the danger and warning signs that were posted. And guess what? I DID in fact see a moose.

I came over a hill and there it was, in the ditch on the right-hand side of the road. Fortunately she was walking slowly into the woods and I slowed down to watch her go. Moose are not to be messed with. They are as heavy as a buffalo, fast a as a horse, and in a contest with a car or a motorcycle, they will win.

There was no time for a picture, but that doesn't matter to me. I'm not much of a picture taker, I'm more of a storyteller. The pictures that I take with my mind are far more valuable to me than the ones taken by cameras. I'll take Garrison Keillor over Ansel Adams any day.  On this trip I have already taken more pictures than I ever have before.  I've promised three a day.  I won't keep that. (Who is Ansel Adams?)

By the way, Jesus was a storyteller too but he did throw a bone to the visual people out there when he drew in the dirt while interceeding on behalf of the woman caught in adultery.  So there is that.

After I gotten back on I-95 and on the down the road a bit  it started to rain so I pulled under a bridge to put on my rain gear.  No sooner did I pull in than another bike ridden by an older guy (OK, older than me) pulled in behind me. We started to talk.

A friend of his had died and the funeral was in Maine. This guy said that only a motorcycle could make such a sad occasion a little more fun. Plus it gave him time to think so he rode up to the funeral from near Boston. 

He and I rode together for the next couple of hundred miles. When we stopped for gas, he invited me over to his house for dinner. But I told him I was in a "I need to get there frame of mind" and I declined. 

Encounters like those help explain why I love to do what I do.

So I headed back into the madness of the turnpike system in New England. It wasn't as bad on a Saturday night so I decided to get as far as I could. Which is why I say, sometimes one day sort of blends into the next. I just kept going.

By the way, there is something about that turnpike system that feels...well...either UnAmerican or HyperAmerican.  I can't tell which.  But here's the deal - if you want to go where I wanted to go, the various turnpikes are the only games in town.  There aren't other options.  Then, once you get on, they charge you whatever it is that they want to.  Sometimes just $1.  $3. $6.30, $12.50 Once it was actually .85 cents.  What is the ryhme or reason to any of those?

Then, when you hit the big time I-90 they have these service centers.  You can't park your bike by the door so you have to leave your stuff out in the open where some ne-er-do-well could snag them.  You can't buy coffee unless you go to the cafe section.  Don't tell Kelley but, since I didn't get to taste lobster in Maine, I bought a lobster sandwich last night.  She asked me, "Small, Medium, or Large."  Whenever people ask me that I just look at them.  Are you kidding me?  YES, large.  I want to tell them, "Look at me.  You don't get this way without trying."  

(Here is the part not to tell Kelley.  The sandwich, one bag of Baked Chips, and one cup of coffee, cost me $29.  I thought that was ludicrous but I'm from North Dakota and we have a tough time taking things back.  And I did want to try lobster.  I took it outside to eat it where I coiuld watch my bike.  It had a hard shell piece in both of the first two bites.  It was crappy. )

About midnight I needed gas before a service center was in sight so I took an exit near Springfield.  There was an Econo Lodge right that at the corner so I made the quick decision to pack it in and get some sleep.  It was booked solid as was the Holiday Inn Express just up the street so I just got some gas and jumped back on the road. 

I don't like to ride tired and I know that sleep is the only thing that wakes you up.  Ironic, that.  So during the night I took two separate naps at the Iron Butt Motel. Here is how that works:

You find a parking spot in the corner of the service center parking lot up against the curb. You turn off your motorcycle. You put the tank bag on the ground for a  pillow. You lay down and you fall asleep. I pretended that Kelley and I were on a nice bed in the Waldorf Astoria and I fell asleep immediately.

Another by the way - I can imagine people thinking, "Isn't that dangerous?  And aren't you embassassed to be seen lying on the pavement like a homeless person or afraid that someone is going to hurt you?"  Quick answers - I don't notice other people while I'm asleep.  Besides, what are the odds that I'll ever see THOSE people again in my lifetime?  What is dangerous is me riding tired.  Sleeping on the ground is just like camping...except without the tent, or the sleeping bag, or the appropriately wildernessy environment.  And finally, if anyone ever has the guts to jump me in a parking lot then I can assure you that they need whatever it is that I have to give them far more than I do.  So I slept as well as you can when you are laying on a public parking lot worried that some gangsta is gonna mug you.

One hour of sleep gave me two more hours to ride. As soon as I sensed myself getting tired again, I headed to another service center for a nap.

That explains why I started writing this blog from the first rest stop in Pennsylvania. And that I am doing the final edit from a motel room in Mentor, OH.  That rest stop didn't leave me feeling rested.  So I decided that 24 hours on the road was enough.  But I got another 1000 mile day in. 

I need to get as far as I can tomorrow so that I can be waiting at a Harley dealer somewhere when they open on Tuesday to get my bike serviced.  Now for nap time so I can rest up enough to go to bed tonight at 7:30.